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THE 




SKETCH BOOK 




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GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gents. 


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" I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator 
of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they play their parts; 
which, methinks, are diversely presented unto me as from a common theatre or 
scene."— 5ttr«o?i. 




author's revised edition. 




WITH ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY F. O. C. DARLEY, 




ENGRAVED BY CHILDS, HERRICK, ETC. 




NEW- YORK : 




GEORGE P. PUTNAM, 155 BROADWAY. 




MDCCCXLIX. 





S-^L^da 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by 

Washington Irvino, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of 
New- York. 



Aprri 3 l935 



John F. Trow, 
Frinter and Stercotypcr 
49 Aua-street, N. Y. 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Portrait of the Author. 

Title — ^" Sunnyside," Residence of Washington Irving. page^ 

Rip Van Winkle awaking 52' 

English Country Church 129 

Return of the Widow's Son 137 

Preston's Ghost IfjS 

Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey 226 

Meeting of the School Boys and the Old Servant . . . 246 

The Author surprising the Children 264 

Church at Stratford-on-Avon ....... 328 

Interior of Shakspeare's House 328 

Death of King Philip - . . . 382 

Funeral of the Pride of the Villag-e 401 

The Angler 414 

The Singing Lesson 433 

IcHABOD Crane 441 



CONTENTS. 




The Author's Account of Himself, 


Page 
9 


The Voyage, ..... 


13 


RoscoE, ...... 


. 21 


The Wife, 


3] 


Rip Van Winkle, . . - . , 


4J 


English Writers on America, . . . . 


65 


Rural Life in England, .... 


77 


The Broken Heart, .... 


87 


The Art of Book-makins, .... 


. 95 


A Royal Poet, ..... 


105 


The Country Church, .... 


123 


The Widow and her Son, 


131 


A Sunday in London, .... 


. 141 


The Boar's Head Tavern, 


145 


The Mutability of Literature, 


. 159 


Rural Funerals, .... 


173 


The Inn Kitchen, ..... 


. 189 


The Spectre Bridegroom, 


193 


Westminster Abbey, .... 


213 


Christmas, ..... 


233 


The Stage Coach, ..... 


. 241 


Christmas Eve, ..... 


249 


Christmas Day, ..... 


. 263 


The Christmas Dinner, . . 


281 


London Antiques, ..... 


. 299 


Little Britain, ..... 


307 



CONTENTS. 



Stratford-on-Avon, 

Traits of Indian Character, 

Philip of Pokanoket, 

John Bull, 

The Pride of the Village, 

The Angler, 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 

L'Envoy, . 



Page 

325 
349 
363 
385 
399 
411 
423 
4&^ 



PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. 

The following papers, with two exceptions, were written in England, 
and formed bu^part of an intended series for which I had made notes and 
memorandums. Before I could mature a plan, however, circumstances 
compelled me to send them piecemeal to the United States, where they 
were published from time to time in portions or numbers. It was not my 
intention to publish them in England, being conscious that much of their 
contents could be interesting only to American readers, and in truth, being 
deterred by the severity with which American productions had been 
treated by the British press. 

By the time the contents of the first volume had appeared in this 
occasional manner, they began to find their way across the Atlantic, and 
to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in the London Literary 
Gazette. It was said, also, that a London bookseller intended to publish 
them in a collective form. I determined, therefore, to bring them forward 
myself, that they might at least have the benefit of my superintendence 
and revision. I accordingly took the printed numbers which I had 
received from the United States, to Mr. John Murray, the eminent 
publisher, from whom I had already received friendly attentions, and left 
them with him for examination, informing him that should he be inclined 
to bjing them before the public, I had materials enough on hand for a 
second volume. Several days having elapsed without any communication 
from Mr. Murray, I addressed a note to him, in which I construed his 
silence into a tacit rejection of my work, and begged that the numbers 
I had left with him might be returned to me. The following was his 
reply. 



PREFACE. 



My dear Sir, 

I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind inten- 
tions towards me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned respect for your 
most tasteful talents. My house is completely filled with workpeople at 
this time, and I have only an office to transact business in ; and yesterday 
[ was wholly occupied, or I should have done myself the pleasure of 
seeing you. 

If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your present 
work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the natu4-e of it which 
would enable me to make those satisfactory accounts between us, without 
which I really feel no satisfaction in engaging — but I will ^o all I can to 
promote their circulation, and shall be most ready to attend to any future 
plan of yours. 

With much regard, I remain, dear sir. 

Your faithful servant, 

John Murray. 

This was disheartening, and might have deterred me from any further 
prosecution of the matter, had the question of republication in Great 
Britain rested entirely with me ; but I apprehended the appearance of a 
spurious edition. I now thought of Mr. Archibald Constable as publisher, 
having been treated by him with much hospitality during a visit to Edin- 
burgh ; but first I determined to submit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) 
Scott, being encouraged to do so by the cordial reception I had experi- 
enced from him at Abbotsford a few years previously, and by the favorable 
opinion he had expressed to others of my earlier v^itings. I accordingly 
sent him the printed numbers of the Sketch Book in a parcel by coach, 
and at the same time wrote to him, hinting that since I had had the pleas- 
ure of partaking of his hospitality, a reverse had taken place in my aifairs 
which made the successful exercise of my pen all-important to me ; I 
begged him, therefore, to look over the literary articles I had forwarded to 
him, and, if he thought they would bear European republication, to ascer- 
tain whether Mr. Constable would be inclined to be the publisher. 

The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scott's address in 
Edinburgh ; the letter went by mail to his residence in the country. By 
the very first post I received a reply, before he had seen my work. 



PREFACE. 



" I was down at Kelso," said he, " when your letter reached Abbots- 
ford. I am now on my way to town, and will converse with Constable, 
and do all in my power to forward your views — I assure you nothing will 
give me more pleasure." 

The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck the quick 
apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical and efficient good will 
which belonged to his nature, he had already devised a way of aiding me. 
A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about to be set up in 
Edinburgh, supported by the most respectable talents, and amply furnished 
with all the necessary information. The appointment of the editor, for 
which ample funds were provided, would be five hundred pounds sterling a 
year, with the reasonable prospect of further advantages. This situation, 
being apparently at his dispdsal, he frankly ofifered to me. The work, 
however, he intimated, was to have somewhat of a political bearing, and he 
expressed an apprehension that the tone it was desired to adopt might not 
suit me. " Yet I risk the question," added he, " because I know no man 
so well qualified for this important task, and perhaps because it will 
necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my proposal does not suit, you 
need only keep the matter secret and there is no harm done. ' And for 
my love I pray you wrong me not.' If on the contrary you think it could 
be made to suit you, let me know as soon as possible, addressing Castle- 
street, Edinburgh." 

In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, " I am just come 
here, and have glanced over the Sketch Book. It is positively beautiful, 
and increases my desire to crimp you, if it be possible. Some difficulties 
there always are in managing such a matter, especially at the outset ; but 
we will obviate them as much as we possibly can." 

The following is from an imperfect draught of my reply, which under- 
went some modifications in the copy sent. 

" I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. I had 
begun to feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty ; but, somehow 
or other, there is a genial sunshine about you that warms every creeping 
thing into heart and confidence. Your literary proposal both surprises 



PREFACE. 



and flatters me, as it evinces a much higher opinion of my talents than I 
have myself." 

I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly unfitted for 
the situation offered to me, not merely by my political opinions, but by the 
very constitution and habits of my mind. " My whole course of life," I 
observed, " has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodically 
recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no com- 
mand of my talents, such as they are, and have to watch -the varyings of 
my mind as I would those of a weather-cock. Practice and training may 
bring me more into rule ; but at present I am as useless for regular ser- 
vice as one of my own country Indians, or a Don Cossack. 

" I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun ; writing 
when I can, not when I would. I shall occasionally shift my residence 
and write whatever is suggested by objects before me, or whatever rises 
in my imagination ; and hope to write better and more copiously by 
and by. 

" I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of answering 
your proposal than by showing what a very good-for-nothing kind of being 
I am. Should Mr. Constable feel inclined to make a bargain for the wares 
I have on hand, he will encourage me to further enterprise ; and it will 
be something hke trading with a gipsy for the fruits of his prowlings, 
who may at one time have nothing but a wooden bowl to offer, and at 
another time a silver tankard." 

In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my declining 
what might have proved a troublesome duty. He then recurred to the 
original subject of our correspondence ; entered into a detail of the various 
terms upon which arrangements were made between authors and book- 
sellers, that I might take my choice ; expressing the most encouraging 
confidence of the success of my work, and of previous works which I had 
produced in America. " I did no more," added he, " than open the 
trenches with Constable ; but I am sure if you will take the trouble to 
write to him, you will find him disposed to treat your overtures with every 
degree of attention. Or, if you think it of consequence in the first place 



PREFACE. 



to see me, I shall be in London in the course of a month, and whatever 
my experience can command is most heartily at your command. But I 
can add little to what I have said above, except my earnest recommenda- 
tion to Constable to enter into the negotiation."* 

Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I had deter- 
mined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, but to throw my work 
before the public at my own risk, and let it sink or swim according to its 
merits. I wrote to that effect to Scott, and soon received a reply : 

" I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth in Britain. 
It is certainly not the very best way to publish on one's own accompt ; for 
the booksellers set their face against the circulation of such works as do 
not pay an amazing toll to themselves. But they have lost the art of 
altogether damming up the road in such cases between the author and the 
public, which they were once able to do as effectually as Diabolus in John_ 
Bunyan's Holy War closed up the windows of my Lord Understanding's 
mansion. I am sure of one thing, that you have only to be known to the 
British public to be admired by them, and I would not say so unless I 
really was of that opinion. 

" If you ever see a witty but rather local publication called Blackwood's 
Edinburgh Magazine, you will find some notice of your works in the 
last number : the author is a friend of mine, to whom I have introduced 
you in your literary capacity. His name is Lockhart, a young man of 
very considerable talent, and who will soon be intimately connected with 
my family. My faithful friend Knickerbocker is to be next examined and 



* I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph of Scott's lettei, which, 
though it does not relate to the main subject of our correspondence, was too characteristic 
to be omitted. Some time previously I had sent Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo 
American editions of her father's poems published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes ; showing 
the " nigromancy " of the American press, by which a quart of wine is conjured into a 
pint bottle. Scott observes: "In my hurry, I have not thanked you in Sophia's name for 
the kind attention which furnished her with the American volumes. I am not quite sure I 
can add my own, since you have made her acquainted with much more of papa's folly 
than she would ever otherwise have learned ; for I had taken special care they should neve' 
see any of those tilings during their earlier years. I think I told you that Walter is sweep- 
ing the firmament with a feather like a maypole and indenting the pavement with a sword 
like a scythe— in other words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th dragoons." 



xii PREFACE. 

illustrated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into consideration 
of a treaty for your works, but I foresee will be still more so when 

Your name is up, and may go 
From Toledo to Madrid. 



And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in London about 

the middle of the month, and promise myself great pleasure in once again 
shaking you by the hand." 

The first volume of the Sketch Book was put to press in London as 
I had resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller unknown to fame, and 
without any of the usual arts by which a work is trumpeted into notice. 
Still some attention had been called to it by the extracts which had 
previously appeared in the Literary Gazette, and by the kind word spoken 
by the editor of that periodical, and it was getting into fair circulation, 
when my worthy bookseller failed before the first month was over, and 
the sale was interrupted. 

At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him for help, as 
I was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious than Hercules, he put his 
own shoulder to the wheel. Through his favorable representations, Mur- 
ray was quickly induced to undertake the future publication of the work 
which he had previously decUned. A further edition of the first volume 
was struck off and the second volume was put to press, and from that 
time Murray became my publisher, conducting himself in all his dealings 
with that fair, open, and HberaJ spirit which had obtained for him the well- 
merited appellation of the Prince of Booksellers. 

Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter Scott, I began 
my literary career in Europe ; and I feel that I am but discharging, in a 
trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to the memory of that golden-hearted 
man in acknowledging my obligations to him. — But who of his literary 
contemporaries ever applied to him for aid or counsel that did not experi- 
ence the most prompt, generous, and effectual assistance ! 

W. I. 
Sunnyside, 1848. 



THE AUTHOFS ACCOUNT OE HIMSELF. 



" I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shel was turned eft- 
600ns into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on ; so the traveller that stragletli 
from his owne country is in a short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine 
to alter his mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would." 

Ltly's Euphues. 



I was always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing strange 
characters and manners. Even when a mere child I began my 
travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and 
unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my 
parents, and the emolument of the town-crier. As I grew into 
boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. My holiday 
afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding country. 
I made myself familiar with all its places famous in history or 
fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been 
committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring vil- 
lages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting their 
habits and customs, and conversing with their sages and great 
men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the summit of 
the most distant hill, whence I stretched my eye over many a 
mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find how vast a 
globe I inhabited. 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books 
of voyages and travels became my passion, and in devouring their 



10 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



contents, I neglected the regular exercises of the school. How 
wistfully would I wander about the pier-heads in fine weather, 
and watch the parting ships, bound to distant climes — ^with what 
longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft 
myself in imagination to the ends of the earth ! 

Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vague 
inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it 
more decided. I visited various parts of my own country ; and 
had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I should have felt little 
desire to seek elsewhere its gratification: for on no country 
have the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her 
mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, with 
their bright aerial tints ; her valleys, teeming with wild fertihty ; 
her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her 
boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure ; her broad 
deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean ; her trackless 
forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence ; her skies, 
kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine ; 
— no, never need an American look beyond his own country for 
the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 

But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poetical 
association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the 
refinements of highly-cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of 
ancient and local custom. My native country was full of youth- 
ful promise : Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of 
age. Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, and every 
mouldering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the 
scenes of renowned achievement — to tread, as it were, in the foot- 
steps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle — to meditate 
on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from the common-place 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 



11 



realities of the present, and lose myself among the shadowy 
grandeurs of the past. 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great men 
of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America : 
not a city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled 
among them in my time, and been almost withered by the shade 
into which they cast me ; for there is nothing so baleful to a 
small man as the shade of a great one, particularly the great man 
of a city. But I was anxious to see the great men of Europe ; 
for I had read in the works of various philosophers, that all 
animals degenerated in America, and man among the number. 
A great man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior 
to a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps to a highland 
of the Hudson ; and in this idea I was confirmed, by observing 
the comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many 
English travelers among us, who, I was assured, were very little 
people in their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, 
thought I, and see the gigantic race from wliich I am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving pas- 
sion gratified. I have wandered through different countries, and 
witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say 
that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher ; but 
rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of 
the picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to 
another ; caught, sometimes by the dehneations of beauty, some- 
times by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the 
loveHness of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists 
to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled 
with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment 
of my friends. When, however, I look over the hints and 



12 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart 
almost fails me at finding how my idle humor has led me aside 
from the great objects studied by every regular traveler who 
would make a book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment 
with an unlucky landscape painter, who had traveled on the con- 
tinent, but, following the bent of his vagrant inclination, had 
sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His sketch-book 
was accordingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and 
obscure ruins ; but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's, or the 
Coliseum ; the cascade of Terni, or the bay of Naples ; and had 
not a single glacier or volcano in his whole collection. 



THE TOYAGE. 



Ships, ships, I will descrie yon 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try yon. 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting, 
What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home wirh rich and wealthy lading. 
Halloo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go 1 



Old Poem. 



To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make 
is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly 
scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted 
to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters 
that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. 
There is no gradual transition by which, as in Europe, the fea- 
tures and population of one country blend almost imperceptibly 
with those of another. From the moment you lose sight of the 
land you have left, all is vacancy until you step on the opposite 
shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of 
another world. 

In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a 
connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the 
story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separation. We 



14 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



drag, it is true, " a lengthening chain " at each remove of our pil- - 
grimage ; but the chain is unbroken : we can trace it back link by 
link ; and we feel that the last still grapples us to home. But 
a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of 
being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, and 
sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not mere- 
ly imaginary, but real, between us and our homes-— a gulf subject 
to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance palpa- 
ble, and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last 
blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, 
it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its con- 
cerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened another. That 
land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all 
most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it — 
what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it 
again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he 
may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence ; or when 
he may return ; or whether it may ever be his lot to revisit the 
scenes of his childhood ? 

I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the expres- 
sion. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself 
in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but 
then they are the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather 
tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to 
loll over the quarter-railing, or climb to the main-top, of a calm 
day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a sum- 
mer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering 
above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them 
with a creation of my own ; — to watch the gentle undulating bil- 



THE VOYAGE. 



15 



lows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those 
happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe 
with which 1 looked down, from my giddy height, on the mon- 
sters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises 
tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus slowly heaving 
his huge form above the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, 
like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination would 
conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world be- 
neath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; 
of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations 
of the earth ; and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of 
fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, 
would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting 
this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of 
existence ! What a glorious monument of human invention ; 
which has in a manner triumphed over wind and wave; has 
brought the eiids of the world into communion ; has established 
an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of 
the north all the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of 
knowledge and the charities of cultivated life; and has thus 
bound together those scattered portions of the human race, be- 
tween which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable 
barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a dis- 
tance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony of the 
surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast 
of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for there 
were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew 



16 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being wash- 
ed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of 
the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted 
about for many months ; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about 
it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought 
I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long been over — ^they have 
gone down amidst the roar of the tempest — their bones lie whiten- 
ing among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the 
waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of 
their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! what 
prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often 
has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, 
to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How 
has expectation darkened into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and 
dread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento may ever return for 
love to cherish. All that may ever be known, is, that she sailed 
from her port, " and was never heard of more !" 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal 
anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when 
the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and 
threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden storms 
which will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer 
voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, 
that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of 
shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short 
one related by the captain. 

" As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine stout ship across 
the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs which pre- 
vail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead 
even in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so thick that 



THE VOYAGE. 



17 



we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the 
ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch for- 
ward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie 
at anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking 
breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water.. 
Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail ahead ! ' — it was 
scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small 
schooner, at anchor, with her broadside towards us. The crew 
were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck 
her just amid-ships. The force, the size, and weight of our ves- 
sel bore her down below the weaves ; we passed over her and 
were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking 
beneath us, I had a ghmpse of two or three half-naked wretches 
rushing from her cabin ; they just started from their beds to be 
swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry 
mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept 
us out of all farther hearing. I shall never forget that cry ! It 
was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under 
such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could gaess, to 
the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for 
several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and listen- 
ed if we might hear the halloo of any survivors : but all was 
silent — we never saw or heard any thing of them more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine 
fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was 
lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen 
sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. Deep called unto 
deep. At times the black volume of clouds over head seemed 
rent asunder by flashes of lightning which quivered along the foam- 
ing billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. 



18 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were 
echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the 
ship staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it 
seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved 
her buoyaE cy. Her yards would dip into the water : her bow 
was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending 
surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dex- 
terous movement of the hehn preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. 
The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like fune- 
real wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and 
groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, 
were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the sides of 
the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were 
raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey : the mere 
starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give liim 
entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, 
soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to 
resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at 
sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail 
swelled, and careering gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, 
how gallant she appears — ^how she seems to lord it over the deep ! 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, for 
with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is time to get to 
shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of " land !" 
was given from the mast-head. None but those who have expe- 
rienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations 
which rush into an American's bosom, when he first comes in sight 



THE VOYAGE. 



19 



of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the very 
name. It is the land of promise, teeming with every thing of 
which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years 
have pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all fever- 
ish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian 
giants along the coast; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out 
into the channel ; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds ; 
all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, 
I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with 
delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green 
grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun 
with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from the 
brow of a neighboring hill — all were characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled 
to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people ; some, 
idle lookers-on, others, eager expectants of friends or relatives. 
I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consigned. 
I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands 
were thrust into his pockets ; he was whistling thoughtfully, and 
'walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded him by 
the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There 
were repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between 
the shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each 
other. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble dress, 
but interesting demeanor. She was leaning forward from among 
the crowd ; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, 
to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed 
and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice caU her name. It was 
from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had ex- 



20 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



cited the sympathy of every one on board. When the weather was 
fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the 
shade, but of late his iUness had so increased, that he had taken to 
his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife 
before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up the 
river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a counte- 
nance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even 
the eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of 
his voice, her eye darted on his features ; it read, at once, a whole 
volume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, 
and stood wringing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint- 
ances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men of 
business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to 
meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my 
forefathers — ^but felt that I was a stranger in the land- 



ROSCOE. 



-In the service of mankind to be 



A guardian god below ; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the groveling herd, 
And make us shine for ever — that is Hfe. 

Thomson. 



One of the first places to whicli a stranger is taken in Liverpool 
is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and judicious 
plan ; it contains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and 
is the great hterary resort of the place. Go there at what hour 
you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave-looking person- 
ages, deeply absorbed in the study of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention 
was attracted to a person just entermg the room. He was ad- 
vanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been com- 
manding, but it was a little bowed by time — perhaps by care. 
He had a noble Roman style of countenance ; a head that would 
have pleased a painter ; and though some slight furrows on his 
brow showed that wasting thought had been busy there, yet his 
eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was some- 
thing in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a different 
order from the bustling race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Roscoe. 



22 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, 
then, was an author of celebrity; this Avas one of those men, 
whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth ; with whose 
minds I have communed even in the solitudes of America. Ac- 
customed, as we are in our country, to know European writers 
only by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of other men, 
engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with the crowd 
of common minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass before 
our imaginations hke superior beings, radiant with the emana- 
tions of their genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici, ming- 
ling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical 
ideas; but it is from the very circumstances and situation in 
wliich he has been placed, that Mr. Roscoe derives his highest 
claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice how some minds 
seem almost to create themselves, springing up under every dis- 
advantage, and working their solitary but irresistible way through 
a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disappointing 
the assiduities of art, with which it would rear legitimate dullness 
to maturity; and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her 
chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the 
winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of 
the world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of 
early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even 
in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and 
spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place 
apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent ; in the very 
market-place of trade ; without fortune, family connections, or 
patronage ; self-prompted, self-sustained, and almost self-taught, 



ROSCOE. 



23 



he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, 
and, having become one of the ornaments of the nation, has 
turned the whole force of his talents and influence to advance 
and embellish his native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given 
him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particularly 
to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his literary 
merits, he is but one among the many distinguished authors of 
tliis intellectual nation. They, however, in general, live but for 
their own fame, or their own pleasures. Their private history- 
presents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of 
human frailty and inconsistency. At best, they are prone to 
steal away from the bustle and commonplace of busy existence ; 
to indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease ; and to revel in 
scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment. 

Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the accord- 
ed privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of 
thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into the high- 
ways and thoroughfares of life ; he has planted bowers by the 
way-side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, 
and has opened pure fountains, where the laboring man may turn 
aside from the dust and heat of the day, and drink of the living 
streams of knowledge. There is a " daily beauty in his life," on 
which mankind may meditate and grow better. It exhibits no 
lofty and almost useless, because inimitable, example of excel- 
lence ; but presents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable 
virtues, which are within every man's reach, but which, unfor- 
tunately, are not exercised by many, or this world would be a 
paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the 



24 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



citizens of our young and busy country, wheje literature and the 
elegant arts must grow up side by side with the coarser plants of 
daily necessity ; and must depend for their culture, not on the 
exclusive devotion of time arid wealth, nor the quickening rays of 
titled patronage, but on hours and seasons snatched from the 
pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent and public-spirited 
individuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours 
of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it can give 
its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo 
De' Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed his eye as on a 
pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven the history of his life 
with the history of his native town, and has made the foundations 
of its fame the monuments of liis virtues. Wherever you go in 
Liverpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is ele- 
gant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in 
the channels of traffick ; he has diverted from it invigorating rills 
to refresh the garden of literature. By his own example and 
constant exertions he has effected that union of commerce and 
the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of his 
latest writings : * and has practically proved how beautifully they 
may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The 
noble institutions for literary and scientific purposes, which reflect 
such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the 
public mind, have mostly been originated, and hate all been 
effectively promoted, by Mr. Roscoe ; and when we consider the 
rapidly increasing opulence and magnitude of that town, which 
promises to vie in commercial importance with the metropolis, it 
will be perceived that in awakening an ambition of mental im- 



I 



* Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 



ROSCOE. 



25 



provement among its inhabitants, he has effected a great benefit 
to the cause of British literature. 

In America, we know JVIi*. Roscoe only as the author — in 
Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of his 
having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, as I 
heard some rich men do. I considered him far above the reach 
of my pity. Those who live only for the world, and in the world, 
may be cast down by the frowns of adversity ; but a man like 
Roscoe is not to be overcome by the reverses of fortune. They 
do but drive him in upon the resources of his own mind ; to the 
superior society of his own thoughts ; which the best of men are 
apt sometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less 
worthy associates. He is independent of the world around him. 
He lives with antiquity and posterity ; with antiquity, in the sweet 
communion of studious retirement; and with posterity, in the 
generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude of such a 
mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited by those 
elevated meditations which are the proper aliment of noble souls, 
and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness of this 
world. 

^Iiile my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my 
fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding 
out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, when 
he turned off, through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. 
After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious mansion of 
freestone, built in the Grecian style. It was not in the purest 
taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was delight- 
ful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps of 
trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a variety 
of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet 



26 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



sheet of water tlirough an expanse of green meadow-land ; while 
the Welsh mountains, blended with clouds, and melting into dis- 
tance, bordered the horizon. 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of his 

prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and liter- | 

ary retirement. The house was now silent and deserted. I saw j 

the windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft scenery | 

I have mentioned. The windows were closed — the library was j 

gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering about the j 

place, whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It was ; 

like visitmg some classic fountain, that had once welled its pure i 

waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the | 

lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles. i 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which had i 

consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he | 

had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. It had passed I 

under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about ! 

the country. The good people of the vicinity thronged like j 

wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel that had been 1 

driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associa- [ 

tions, we might imagine something whimsical in this strange ! 

irruption in the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the i 

armory of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons | 

which they could not wield. We might picture to ourselves | 

some knot of speculators, debating with calculating brow over \ 

the quaint binding and illummated margin of an obsolete author; ! 

of the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which some sue- { 

cessful purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain | 
he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's mis- 



ROSCOE. 



fortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious mind, 
that the parting with his books seems to have touched upon his 
tenderest feelings, and to have been the only circumstance that 
could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows 
how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts 
and innocent hours become in the seasons of adversity. When 
all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain 
their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse 
of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these 
only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and 
cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope, 
nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of Liver- 
pool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe 
and themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good 
worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, 
which it would be difficult to combat with others that might seem 
merely fanciful ; but it certainly appears to me such an oppor- 
tunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling 
under misfortunes, by one of the most delicate, but most ex- 
pressive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to 
estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. 
He becomes mingled and confounded with other men. His great 
qualities lose their novelty, we become too familiar with the com- 
mon materials which form the basis even of the loftiest character 
Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a 
man of business ; others as a politician ; all find him engaged 
like themselves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, 
by themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. Even that 
amiable and unostentatious simplicity of character, which giveF 



28 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the nameless grace to real excellence, may cause him to be 
undervalued by some coarse minds, who do not know that true 
worth is always void of glare and pretension. But the man of 
letters, who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence 
of Roscoe. — The intelligent traveler who visits it inquires where 
Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary landmark of the place, 
indicating its existence to the distant scholar.-^He is, like 
Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic 
dignity. 



The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Eoscoe to his books 
on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. If 
any thing can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought 
here displayed, it is the conviction, that the whole is no effusion 
of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the writer's heart. 



TO MY BOOKS. 

As one who, destined from his friends to pan, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse and enjoy their 8mile, 

And tempers as he may affliction's dart ; 



Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 



ROSCOE. 



29 



For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. 

And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
And all your sacred fellowship restore : 
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers. 
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



THE WIFE. 



The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man 
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
What a deUcious breath marriage sends forth . . 
The violet bed's not sweeter. 

MlDDLETON. 



I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which 
women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. 
Those disasters wliich break down the spirit of a man, and 
prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of 
the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their 
chai'acter, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can 
be more touching than to behold a soft and tender female, who 
had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial 
roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly 
rising in mental force to be the comforter and support of her 
husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firm- 
ness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful fohage about 
the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy 
plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing 



32 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs; so is it beautifully 
ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent 
and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and 
solace when smitten with sudden calamity ; Tvdnding herself into 
the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the droop- 
ing head, and binding up the broken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had* around him a 
blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. " I can 
wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to have 
a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to 
share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort 
you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man falling 
into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world 
than a single one ; partly because he is more stimulated to exer- 
tion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who 
depend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly because his spirits 
are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self- 
respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness 
and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, 
of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run 
to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, 
and his heart to fall to ruin like some desei:ted mansion, for want 
of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had 
married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought 
up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no for- 
tune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in the 
anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and admin- 
istering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of 



THE WIFR 



'S3 



witchery about the sex. — " Her life," said he,' " shall be like a 
fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced an harmonious 
combination : he was of a romantic and somewhai,i serious cast ; 
she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rap- 
ture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which 
her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst 
of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone 
she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her 
slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly person. The 
fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call 
forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if 
he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never 
did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well- 
suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked 

his property in large speculations ; and he had not been married 

many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was 

swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost to penury. 

For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with 

a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but 

a protracted agony ; and what rendered it more insupportable was 

the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; 

for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. 

She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was 

not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled 

sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts 

at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender 

blandishments to win him back to happiness ; but she only drove 

the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love 

2* 



34 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make 
her wretched. A httle while, thought he, and the smile will 
vanish from that cheek — the song will die away from those lips — 
the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the 
happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be 
weighed down like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situa- 
tion in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him through 
I inquired, " Does your wife know all this ?" — At the question he 
burst into an agony of tears. " For God's sake !" cried he, " if 
you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; it is the 
thought of her that drives me almost to madness !" 

" And why not ?" said I. " She must know it sooner or later : 
you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break 
upon her in a more startling manner, than if imparted by your- 
self; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. 
Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympa- 
thy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that 
can keep hearts together — an unreserved community of thought 
and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly 
preying upon your mind ; and true love will not brook reserve ; 
it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those 
it loves are concealed from it." 

" Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to 
all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to the 
earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that she is to 
forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society — to 
shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! To tell her that I 
have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have 
continued to move in constant brightness — the light of every eye 



THE WIFE. 85 

— the admiration of every heart ! — How can she bear poverty ? 
she has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. 
How can she bear neglect ? she has been the idol of society. 
Oh ! it will break her heart — it will break her heart ! — " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for 
sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had sub- 
sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the sub- 
ject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to his 
wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her ? It is necessary she 
should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the altera- 
tion of your circumstances. You must change your style of 
living nay," observing a pang to pass across his counte- 
nance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never 
placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, 
warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less 
splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require a palace to be 
happy with Mary " 

" I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, " in a 
hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty and the dust ! — I 
could — I could — God bless her! — God bless her !" cried he, burst- 
ing into a transport of grief and tenderness. 

" And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasp- 
ing him warmly by the hand, " believe me she can be the same 
with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph 
to her — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympa- 
thies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves 
you for yourself There is in every true woman's heart a spark 
of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of 
prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the 



36 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of hia 
bosom is — no man knows what a mmistering angel she is — until 
he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and 
the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited ima- 
gination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and 
following up the impression I had made, 1 finished by persuading 
him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some 
little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude 
of one whose whole Hfe has been a round of pleasures ? Her 
gay spirits might revolt at the dark downward path of low 
humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might chng to the 
sunny regions in which they had hitherto reveled. Besides, ruin 
in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifica- 
tions, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. — In short, I could 
not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He had 
made the disclosure. 

" And how did she bear it ?" 

" Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a reUef to her mind, 
for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all 
that had lately made me unhappy. — But, poor girl," added he, 
" she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no 
idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in 
poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation ; 
she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniencies nor elegancies. 
When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its 
paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." 

" But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest task, 
that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the 




THE WIFE. 



37 



secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then it 
is a single misery, and soon over : whereas you otherwise suffer 
it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so 
much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man— the struggle 
between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping up a 
hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to 
appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On 
this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false 
pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform 
to their altered fortunes. 

Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. He 
had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small cottage in 
the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day 
in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few 
articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furni- 
niture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's 
harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of 
herself ; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for some of 
the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had 
leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of 
her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic 
gallantry in a doting husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been 
all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become 
strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and, as it 
was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he walked 
out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Hary !" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from 
his lips. 



38 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

" And what of her ?" asked I : " has any thing happened to 
her?" 

" What,'* said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it nothing 
to be reduced to this paltry situation — ^to be caged in a miserable 
cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her 
wretched habitation ?" 

" Has she then repined at the change ?" 

" Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever 
known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
comfort !" 

" Admirable girl !" exclaimed I. " You call yourself poor, 
my friend; you never were so rich — you never knew the 
boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." 

" Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were 
over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first 
day of real experience ; she has been introduced into a humble 
dwelling — she has been employed all day in arranging its misera- 
ble equipments — she has, for the first time, known the fatigues 
of domestic employment — she has, for the first time, looked 
round her on a home destitute of every thing elegant, — almost 
of every thing convenient; and may now be sitting down, 
exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future 
poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could 
not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly 
shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, 
we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its 



THE WIFE. 39 



appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing 
rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion 
of foliage; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it; 
and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about 
the door, and on the grassplot in front. A small wicket gate 
opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to 
the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music 
— Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was 
Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, 
a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward 
to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel 
walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and 
vanished — a hglit footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping 
forth to meet us : she was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few 
wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on 
her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — I had 
never seen her look so lovely. 

" My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come ! 
I have been watching and watching for you ; and running dovm 
the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a 
beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been gathering some 
of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of 
them — and we have such excellent cream — and every thing is 
so sweet and still here — Oh !" said she, putting her arm within 
his, and looking up brightly in his face, " Oh, we shall be so 
happy !" 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — he 
folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and again — he 



40 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has 
often assured me, that though the world has since gone pros- 
perously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet 
nev^er has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



[The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich 
Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New- York, who was very curious 
in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants 
from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not 
lie so much among books as among men ; for the former are lamentably 
scanty on his favorite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, and 
still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true 
history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch 
family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading 
sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and 
studied it with the zeal of a book- worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the province 
during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years 
since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of 
his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. 
Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little 
questioned, on its first appearance, but has since been completely estab- 
lished ; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a book of 
unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and 
now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to 
say, that his time might have been much better employed in weightier 
labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and 
though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his 
neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the 



42 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



truest deference and affection ; yet his errors and follies are remembered 
" more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that he 
never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be 
appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk, whose good 
opinion is well worth having ; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who 
have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes ; and 
have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being 
stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.] 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 



By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday. 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre 

Cartwright. 



Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember 
the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of 
the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of 
the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the 
surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of 
weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in 
the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are 
regarded by all the good waves, far and near, as perfect barome- 
ters. When the w^eather is fair and settled, they are clothed in 
blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear even- 
ing sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloud- 
less, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, 
which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up 
like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have 



44 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose 
shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of 
the upland melt awaj into the fresh green of the nearer land- 
scape. It is a Httle village, of great antiquity, having been 
founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the 
province, just about the beginning of the government of the good 
Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace !) and there were some 
of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, 
built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed 
windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and 
weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the country 
was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good-natured 
fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant 
of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous 
days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of 
Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial 
character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple 
good-natured man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an 
obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance 
might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such 
universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be obse- 
quious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of 
shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant 
and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and 
a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teach- 
ing the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant 
wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable 
blessing ; and if so, Hip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



45 



Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good 
wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his 
part in all family squabbles ; and never failed, whenever they 
talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all 
the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, 
too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted 
at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites 
and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, 
and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he 
was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clam- 
bering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the 
neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aver- 
sion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the 
want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wet 
rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish 
all day without a murmur, even though he should not be en- 
couraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece 
on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and 
swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or 
wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even 
in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics 
for husking Indian corn, or building stone-fences ; the women of 
the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and 
to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would 
not do for them. In a word Rip was ready to attend to any 
body's business but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and 
keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; it 



46 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country ; 
every thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of 
him. His fences were continually falling to pieces ; his cow would 
either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to 
grow quicker in his fields than any where else ; the rain always 
made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to 
do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away 
under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more 
left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the 
worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged 
to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, 
promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. 
He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, 
equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he 
had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her 
train in bad weather. 

Eip Van "Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, 
of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat 
white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or 
trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a 
pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in 
perfect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in his 
ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he w'as 
bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue 
was incessantly going, and every thing he said or did was sure to 
produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way 
of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, 
had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his 
head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 47 



provoked a fresh volley from his wife ; so that he was fain to 
draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only 
side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was a& 
much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded 
them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with 
an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. 
True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he 
was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but what 
courage can vrithstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors 
of a woman's tongue ? The moment Wolf entered the house h^s 
crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled between his 
legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a side- 
long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a 
broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping preci- 
pitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years 
of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mellows with age, 
and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with 
constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when 
driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village ; 
which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated 
by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here 
they used to sit in the shade through a long lazy summer's day, 
talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy 
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any states- 
man's money to have heard the profound discussions that some- 
times took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their 
hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would 



48 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, 
the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not to he 
daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how 
sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months 
after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by 
Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and "landlord of the 
inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, 
just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade 
of a large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his 
movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was 
rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His 
adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), per- 
fectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. 
When any thing that was read or related displeased him, he was 
observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, 
frequent and angry puffs ; but when pleased, he would inhale tht^ 
smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds ; 
and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the 
fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head 
in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this strong-hold the unlucky Rip was at length 
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon 
the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the members all to 
naught ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, 
sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged 
him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and his only 
alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of 
his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and 
share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympa- 
thized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. " Poor Wolf," he 
would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but never 
mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to 
stand by thee !" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his 
master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he 
reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day. Rip had 
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaat- 
skill mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel 
shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the 
reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late 
in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, 
that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between 
the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile 
of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, 
far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the 
reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here 
and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in 
the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, 
wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from 
the impending cliff's, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of 
the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene ; 
evening was gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw 
their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would be 
dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a 
heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame 
Van Winkle. 

3 



M 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, 
hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van "Winkle !" He looked 
round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight 
across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived 
him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry 
ring through the still evening air ; " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip 
Van Winkle !" — at the same time Wolf bristled-up his back, and 
giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully 
down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing 
over him ; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and per- 
ceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending 
under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was 
surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented 
place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in 
need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singu- 
larity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short square-built 
old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His 
dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped 
round the waist — several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample 
volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and 
bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that 
seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and 
assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of 
this new acquaintance. Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and 
mutually relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow gully, 
apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they as- 
cended. Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like dis- 
tant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather 
cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path con- 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



51 



ducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the 
muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which often 
take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through 
the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, sur- 
rounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which 
impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught 
glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During 
the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence ; 
for though the former marveled greatly what could be the object 
of carrying a keg of liquor up this Avild mountain, yet there was 
something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that 
inspired awe and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder pre- 
sented tliemselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company 
of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were 
dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion ; some wore short doublets, 
others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them 
had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. 
Their visages, too, were peculiar : one had a large head, broad 
face, and small piggish eyes : the face of another seemed to con- 
sist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf 
hat, set oif with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, 
of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to 
be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a 
weather-beaten countenance ; he wore a laced doublet, broad 
belt and hanger, high crowned bat and feather, red stockings, 
and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group 
reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the 
parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which 
had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 



52 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these 
folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained 
the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, 
the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. 
Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of 
the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the 
mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly 
desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue- 
like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, 
that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. 
His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large 
flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He 
obeyed with fear and trembling ; they quaffed the liquor in pro- 
found silence, and then returned to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even 
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, 
which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. 
He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat 
the draught. One taste provoked another; and he reiterated 
his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were 
overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually de- 
clined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he 
had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — 
it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and 
twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, 
and breasting the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," thought 
Rip, " I have not slept here all night." He recalled the oc- 
currences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 63 



liquor — tlie mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks 
— the wol)egone party at nine-pins — the flagon — " Oh ! that 
flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip — "what excuse shall 
I make to Dame Van Winkle !" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well- 
oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the 
barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock 
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the 
mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with 
Hquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, 
but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He 
whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain ; the 
echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gam- 
bol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and 
gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, 
and wanting in his usual activity. " These mountain beds do 
not agree with me," thought Rip, " and if this frolic should lay 
me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time 
with Dame Van Winkle." With some di&culty he got down 
into the glen : he found the gully up which he and his companion 
had ascended the preceding evening ; but to his astonishment a 
mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to 
rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, 
made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way 
through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and some- 
times tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted 
their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of net- 
work in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through 



54 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening 
remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, over 
which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and 
fell into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the 
surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a 
stand. He again called and whistled after his dog ; he was only- 
answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in 
air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, 
secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the 
poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? the morning 
was passing away, and E,ip felt famished for want of his break- 
fast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to 
meet his wife ; but it would not do to starve among the moun- 
tains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, 
with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps home- 
ward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of people, but 
none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had 
thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. 
Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he 
was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of 
surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably 
stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture 
induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonish- 
ment, he found his beard had grown a foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of 
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing 
at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized 
for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very 
village was altered; it was larger and more populous. There 



RIP VAN WINKLE. . 55 



were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those 
which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange 
names were over the doors — strange faces at the windows — 
every thing was strange. His mind now misgave him ; he began 
to doubt -whether both he and the world around him were not 
bewitched. Surely this was his -native village, which he had left 
but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill mountains — there 
ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and 
dale precisely as it had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — 
" That flagon last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head 
sadly !" 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own 
house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every 
moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He 
found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows 
shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that 
looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, 
but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was 
an unkind cut indeed — " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has 
forgotten me !" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van 
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, 
and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his 
connubial fears — ^he called loudly for his wife and children — the 
lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all 
again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the 
village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden build- 
ing stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them 
broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the 



56 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." 
Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch 
inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with some- 
thing on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was 
fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and 
stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recog- 
nized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under 
which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but even this 
was singularly metamorphosed, The red coat was changed for 
one of blue and bufi^, a sword was held in the hand instead of a 
sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and under- 
neath was painted in large characters, General Washing- 
ton. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none 
that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed 
changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, 
instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He 
looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, 
double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke 
instead of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, 
doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of 
these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand- 
bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elec- 
tions — members of congress — ^liberty — Bunker's Hill — ^heroes of 
seventy-six — and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish 
jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty 
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and chil- 
dren at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politi- 
cians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



57 



with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing 
him partly aside, inquired " on which side he voted ?" Rip stared 
in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled 
him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " Wlie- 
ther he was Federal or Democrat ?" Rip was equally at a loss 
to comprehend the question ; when a knowing, self-important old 
gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the 
crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he 
passed, and planting himself before Yan Winkle, with one arm 
akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp 
hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an 
austere tone, " what brought him to the election with a gun on 
his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to 
breed a riot in the village ?" — Alas ! gentlemen," cried Rip, 
somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor quiet man, a native of the 
place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him !" 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — " A tory ! 
a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him !" It was 
with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat 
restored order ; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, 
demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, 
and whom he was seeking ? The poor man humbly assured him 
that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some 
of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

" Well — who ai'e they ? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's 
Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, 
in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ! why, he is dead and 
gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in 

3* 



58 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten 
and gone too." 

" Where's Brom Dutcher ?" 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; 
some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point— others 
say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I 
don't know — he never came back again." 

" Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ?" 

" He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and 
is now in congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his 
home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. 
Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous 
lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand : 
war— congress — Stony Point ; — he had no courage to ask after 
any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here 
know Rip Van Winkle ?" 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle !" exclaimed two or three, " Oh, to 
be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the 
tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he 
went up the mountain : apparently as lazy, and certainly as rag- 
ged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He 
doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another 
man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked 
hat demanded who he was, and what was his name ? 

" God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end ; " I'm not my- 
self — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody 
else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep 
on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 59 



changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or 
who I am !" 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink 
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There 
was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old 
fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the 
self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipita- 
tion. At this critical moment a fresh comely woman pressed 
through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She 
had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, 
began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; 
the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of 
the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recol- 
lections in his mind. " What is your name, my good woman ?" 
asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name ?" 

"Ah, poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's 
twenty years since he went away from home wdth his gun, and 
never has been heard of since — his dog came home without him ; 
but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, 
nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a 
faltering voice : 

" Where's your mother ?" 

" Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she broke a 
blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his 
daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father !" cried 



60 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



he — " Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Eip Van Winkle now ! 
— Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it 
in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough ! it is Rip 
Van Winkle — it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor 
— Why, where have you been these twenty long years ?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had 
been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they 
heard it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their 
tongues in their cheeks : and the self-important man in the cocked 
hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, 
screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — 
upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout 
the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter 
Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He 
was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one 
of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most 
ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the won- 
derful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected 
Rip at once, and corroborated his story in, the most satisfactory 
manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed 
down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill moun- 
tains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it Avas 
affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the 
river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty year.*, 
with his crew of the Half-moon ; being permitted in this way to 
revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon 
the river, and the great city called by his name. That his father 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



61 



had once seen tliem in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine- 
pins in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, 
one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals 
of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and 
returned to the more important concerns of the election. E-ip's 
daughter took him home to live with her ; she had a snug, well- 
furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom 
Rip recollected for one of the urchms that used to climb upon his 
back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, 
seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the 
farm ; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to any thing 
else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon found 
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the 
wear and tear of time ; and preferred making friends among the 
rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy 
age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place 
once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one 
of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times 
" before the war." It was some time before he could get into the 
regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the 
strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that 
there had been a revolutionary war — that the country had thrown 
off the yoke of old England — and that, instead of being a subject 
of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of 
the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the changes 
of states and empires made but little impression on him ; but 
there was one species of despotism under which he had long 



62 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily that was 
at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, 
and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading 
the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was 
mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, 
and cast up his eyes ; which might pass either for an expression 
of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliveranc'e. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at JVIr. 
Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some 
points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his 
having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to 
the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the 
neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to 
doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his 
head, and that this was one point on which he always remained 
flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally 
gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder- 
storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say 
Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins ; 
and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neigh- 
borhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might 
have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 

NOTE. 



The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knick- 
erbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der 
Eothbart, and the Kypphaiiser mountain: the subjoined note, however, which 
he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his 
usual fidelity : 

" The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but never 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



63 



theless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settle- 
ments to have been very subject to maiTelous events and appearances. Indeed, 
I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson : 
all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even 
talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very 
venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other 
point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bar- 
gain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice, 
and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, there- 
fore, is beyond the possibility of doubt , 

D. K." 

POSTSCRIPT. 



The following are traveling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. Knick- 
erbocker : 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region full of 
fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influenced the 
weather, spreading simshine or clouds over the landscape, and sending good or 
bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their 
mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of 
the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She 
hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In 
times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds 
out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the 
mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air : 
until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, caus- 
ing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an 
hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting 
in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web ; and 
when these clouds broke, wo betide the valleys ! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or 
Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, and took 
a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations upon the 
red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a 



64 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and 
among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho ! ho ! leaving him 
aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock or 
cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the flowering vines which 
clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is 
known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, 
the haunt of the soUtary bittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the 
leaves of the pond-lilies, which lie on the surface. This place was held in 
great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue 
his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had 
lost his way, penetrated to the garden rock, where he beheld a number of gourds 
placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized and made off" with it, 
but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great 
stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down precipices, 
where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, 
and continues to flow to the present day ; being the identical stream known by 
tlie name of the Kaaters-kill. 



ENGLISH WfllTERS ON AMERICA. 



" Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself like a strong man 
after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks : methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty 
youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam." 

Milton on the Liberty of the Press. 



It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary ani- 
mosity daily growing up between England and America. Great 
curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to the United 
States, and the London press has teemed with volumes of travels 
through the Republic ; but they seem intended to diffuse error 
rather than knowledge ; and so successful have they been, that, 
notwithstanding the constant intercourse between the nations, 
there is no people concerning whom the great mass of the British 
public have less pure information, or entertain more numerous 
prejudices. 

English travelers are the best and the worst in the world. 
Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal 
them for profound and philosophical views of society, or faithful 
and graphical descriptions of external objects ; but when either 
the interest or reputation of their own country comes in collision 
with that of another, they go to the opposite extreme, and forget 
their usual probity and candor, in the indulgence of splenetic 
remark, and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 



66 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the more 
remote the country described. I would place implicit confidence 
in an Englishman's description of the regions beyond the cataracts 
of the Nile ; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea ; of the inte- 
rior of India ; or of any other tract which other travelers might 
be apt to picture out with the illusions of their fancies ; but I 
would cautiously receive his account of his immediate neighbors, 
and of those nations with which he is in habits of most frequent 
intercourse. However I might be disposed to trust his probity, I 
dare not trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be visited 
by the worst kind of English travelers. While men of philo- 
sophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from England 
to ransack the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study the 
manners and customs of barbarous nations, with which she can 
have no permanent intercourse of profit or pleasure ; it has been 
left to the broken-down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the 
wandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birmingham agent, to 
be her oracles respecting America. From such sources she is 
content to receive her information respecting a country in a sin- 
gular state of moral and physical development ; a country in 
which one of the greatest political experiments in the history of 
the world is now performing ; and which presents the most pro- 
found and momentous studies to the statesman and the phi- 
losopher. 

That such men should give prejudicial accounts of America 
is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contempla- 
tion are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The national 
character is yet in a state of fermentation ; it may have its frothi- 
ness and sediment, but its ingredients are sound and wholesome ; 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 



67 



it has already given proofs of powerful and generous qualities ; 
and the whole promises to settle down into something substan- 
tially excellent. But the causes which are operating to strengthen 
and ennoble it, and its daily indication of admirable properties, 
are all lost upon these purblind observers ; who are only affected 
by the little asperities incident to its present situation. They are 
capable of judging only of the surface of things ; of those mat- 
ters which come in contact with their private interests and per- 
sonal gratifications. They miss some of the snug conveniences 
and petty comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished, and 
over-populous state of society ; where the ranks of useful labor 
are crowded, and many earn a painful and servile subsistence by 
studying the very caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. These 
minor comforts, however, are all-important in the estimation of 
narrow minds ; which either do not perceive, or will not acknow- 
ledge, that they are more than counterbalanced among us by great 
and generally diffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some unrea- 
sonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured 
America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold and silver 
abounded, and the natives were lacking in sagacity ; and where 
they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, in some unfore- 
seen, but easy manner. The same weakness of mind that in- 
dulges absurd expectations produces petulance in disappointment. 
Such persons become embittered against the country on finding 
that there, as every where else, a man must sow before he can 
reap ; must win wealth by industry and talent ; and must contend 
with the common difficulties of nature, a,nd the shrewdness of an 
intelligent and enterprising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken, or ill-directed hospitality, or from 



68 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stranger, 
prevalent among my countrymen, they may have been treated 
with unwonted respect in America ; and having been accustomed 
all their lives to consider themselves below the surface of good 
society, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, they 
become arrogant on the common boon of civility : they attribute 
to the lowliness of others their own elevation ; and underrate a 
society where there are no artificial distinctions, and where, by 
any chance, such individuals as themselves can rise to conse- 
quence. 

One would suppose, however, that information coming from 
such sources, on a subject where the truth is so desirable, would 
be received with caution by the censors of the press ; that the 
motives of these men, their veracity, their opportunities of inquiry 
and observation, and their capacities for judging correctly, would 
be rigorously scrutinized before their evidence was admitted, in 
such sweeping extent, against a kindred nation. The very reverse, 
however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking instance of human 
inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the vigilance with which 
English critics will examine the credibility of the traveler who 
publishes an account of some distant, and comparatively unimpor- 
tant, country. How M^arily will they compare the measurements 
of a pyramid, or the descriptions of a ruin ; and how sternly will 
they censure any inaccuracy in these contributions of merely cu- 
rious knowledge : while they will receive, with eagerness and 
unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations of coarse and ob- 
scure writers, concerning a country with which their own is placed 
in the most important and delicate relations. Nay, they will even 
make these apocryphal volumes text-books, on which to enlarge 
with a zeal and an ability worthy of a more generous cause. 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 



I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hackneyed 
topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the undue interest 
apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain injurious 
effects which I apprehended it might produce upon the national 
feeling. We attach too much consequence to these attacks. 
They cannot do us any essential injury. The tissue of misrepre- 
sentations attempted to be woven round us are like cobwebs 
woven round the limbs of an infant giant. Our country continu- 
ally outgrows them. One falsehood after another falls off of itself. 
We have but to live on, and every day we live a wdiole volume 
of refutation. All the writers of England united, if we could 
for a moment suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy 
a combination, could not conceal our rapidly-growing importance, 
and matchless prosperity. They could not conceal that these are 
owing, not merely to physical and local, but also to moral causes 
— to the political liberty, the general diffusion of knowledge, the 
prevalence of sound moral and religious principles, which give 
force and sustained energy to the character of a people ; and 
which, in fact, have been the acknowledged and wonderful sup- 
porters of their own national power and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of 
England ? Why do w^e suffer ourselves to be so affected by the 
contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us ? It is not in the 
opinion of England alone that honor lives, and reputation has its 
being. The world at large is the arbiter of a nation's fame ; with 
its thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, and from their 
collective testimony is national glory or national disgrace estab- 
lished. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little 
importance whether England does us justice or not ; it is, per- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



haps, of far more importance to herself. She is instilling anger 
and resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation, to grow with 
its growth and strengthen with its strength. If in America, as 
some of her writers are laboring to convince her, she is hereafter 
to find an invidious rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank 
those very writers for having provoked rivalship and irritated 
hostility. Every one knows the all-pervading inrfluence of litera- 
ture at the present day, and how much the opinions and passions 
of mankind are under its control. The mere contests of the 
sword are temporary ; their wounds are but in the flesh, and it is 
the pride of the generous to forgive and forget them ; but the 
slanders of the pen pierce to the heart ; they rankle longest in 
the noblest spirits ; they dwell ever present in the mind, and 
render it morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is 
but seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities between 
two nations; there exists, most commonly, a previous jealousy 
and ill-will; a predisposition to take offience. Trace these to 
their cause, and how often will they be found to originate in the 
mischievous effusions of mercenary writers ; who, secure in their 
closets, and for ignominious bread, concoct and circulate the 
venom that is to inflame the generous and the brave. 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; for it 
applies most emphatically to our particular case. Over no nation 
does the press hold a more absolute control than over the people 
of America ; for the universal education of the poorest classes 
makes e^ery individual a reader. There is nothing published in 
England on the subject of our country that does not circulate 
through every part of it. There is not a calumny dropped from 
English pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English 
statesman, that does not go to blight good-will, and add to th(^ 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 



71 



mass of latent resentment. Possessing, then, as England does, 
tlie fountain-head whence the literature of the language flows, 
how completely is it in her power, and how truly is it her duty, 
to make it the medium of amiable and magnanimous feeling — a 
stream where the two nations might meet together, and drink in 
peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist in turning 
it to waters of bitterness, the time may come when she may 
repent her folly. The present friendship of America may be of 
but little moment to her ; but the future destinies of that country 
do not admit of a doubt ; over those of England there lower some 
shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive ; 
should those reverses overtake her, from which the proudest 
empires have not been exempt ; she may look back with regret 
at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a nation she might 
have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her only chance 
for real friendship beyond the boundaries of her own dominions. 
There is a general impression in England, that the people of 
the United States are inimical to the parent country. It is one 
of the errors which have been diligently propagated by designing 
writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility, and 
a general soreness at the illiberality of the English press ; but, 
generally speaking, the prepossessions of the people are strongly 
in favor of England. Indeed, at one time, they amounted, in 
many parts of the Union, to an absurd degree of bigotry. The 
bare name of Englishman was a passport to the confidence and 
hospitality of every family, and too often gave a transient cur- 
rency to the worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the coun- 
try there was something of enthusiasm connected with the idea of 
England. We looked to it Avith a hallowed feeling of tenderness 
and veneration, as the land of our forefathers — the august reposi- 



72 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



tory of the monuments and antiquities of our race — the birthplace 
and mausoleum of the sages and heroes of our paternal history. 
After our own country, there was none in whose glory we more 
delighted — none whose good opinion we were more anxious to 
possess — none toward which our hearts yearned with such throb- 
bings of warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, when- 
ever there was the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring 
forth, it was the delight of the generous spirits of our country to 
show that, in the midst of hostilities, they still kept alive the 
sparks of future friendship. 

Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden band of kindred 
sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken for ever ? — 
— Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an illusion which 
might have kept us in mental vassalage ; which might have inter- 
fered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented the 
growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give up the 
kindred tie ! and there are feelings dearer than interest — closer to 
the heart than pride — that will still make us cast back a look of 
regret, as we wander farther and farther from the paternal roof, 
and lament the waywardness of the parent that would repel the 
affections of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of Eng- 
land may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on our part 
would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and spirited 
vindication of our country, nor the keenest castigation of her 
slanderers — but I allude to a disposition to retaliate in kind ; to 
retort sarcasm, and inspire prejudice ; ^vhich seems to be spread- 
ing widely among our writers. Let us guard particularly against 
such a temper, for it would double the evil instead of redressing 
the wrong. Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 



73 



and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and an unprofitable contest. It is 
tlie alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather 
than warmed into indignation. If England is willing to permit 
the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous animosities of poli- 
tics, to deprave the integrity of her press, and poison the fountain 
of public opinion, let us beware of her example. She may deem 
it her interest to diffuse error, and engender antipathy, for the 
purpose of checking emigration ; we have no purpose of the kind 
to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to 
gratify, for as yet, in all our rivalships with England, we are 
the rising and the gaining party. There can be no end to answer, 
therefore, but the gratification of resentment — a mere spirit of 
retaliation ; and even that is impotent. Our retorts are never 
republished in England ; they fall short, therefore, of their aim ; 
but they foster a querulous and peevish temper among our writers ; 
they sour the sweet flow of our early literature, and sow thorns 
and brambles among its blossoms. What is still worse, they cir- 
culate through our own country, and, as far as they have effect, 
excite virulent national prejudices. This last is the evil most 
especially to be deprecated. Governed, as we are, entirely by 
public opinion, the utmost care should be taken to preserve the 
purity of the public mmd. Knowledge is power, and truth is 
knowledge ; whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a preju- 
dice, willfully saps the foundation of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men, should be 
candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions of the 
sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be enabled to come 
to all questions of national concern with calm and unbiased judg- 
ments. From the pecuhar nature of our relations with England, 
we must have more frequent questions of a difficult and deHcate 




74 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



character with her than with any other nation ; questions that 
affect the most acute and excitable feelings ; and as, in the adjust- 
ing of these, our national measures must ultimately be determined 
by popular sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to 
purify it from all latent passion or prepossession. 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every 
portion of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. It 
should be our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, at least, 
destitute of national antipathies, and exercising not merely the 
overt acts of hospitality, but those more rare and noble cour-tesies 
which spring from liberality of opinion. 

What have we to do with national prejudices ? They are the 
inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and igno- 
rant ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and looked 
beyond their own boundaries with distrust and hostility. We, on 
the contrary, have sprung into national existence in an enlight- 
ened and philosophic age, when the different parts of the habita- 
ble world, and the various branches of the human family, have 
been indefatigably studied and made known to each other ; and 
we forego the advantages of our birth, if we do not shake off the 
national prejudices, as we would the local superstitions of the old 
world. 

But above all let us not be influenced by any angry feelings, 
so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is really excel- 
lent and amiable in the English character. We are a young 
people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our examples 
and models, in a great degree, from the existing nations of Europe. 
There is no country more worthy of our study than England. 
The spirit of her constitution is most analogous to ours. The 
manners of her people — their intellectual activity — their freedom 



X 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 75 



of opmion — their habits of thinking on those subjects which con- 
cern the dearest interests and most sacred charities of private life, 
are all congenial to the American character; and, in fact, are all 
intrinsically excellent ; for it is in the moral feeling of the people 
that the deep foundations of British prosperity are laid ; and how- 
ever the superstructure may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, 
there must be something solid in the basis, admirable in the mate- 
rials, and stable in the structure of an edifice, that so long has 
towered unshaken amidst the tempests of the world. 

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all 
feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the illiberallty of 
British authors, to speak of the English nation without prejudice, 
and with determined candor. While they rebuke the indiscrimi- 
nating bigotry with which some of our countrymen admire and 
imitate every thing English, merely because it is English, let them 
frankly point out what is really worthy of approbation. We 
may thus place England before us as a perpetual volume of refer- 
ence, wherein are recorded sound deductions from ages of expe- 
rience ; and while we avoid the errors and absurdities which may 
have crept into the page, we may draw thence golden maxims of 
practical wisdom, wherewith to strengthen and to embellish our 
national character. 



X 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 



Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! 

COWPER. 



The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the English 
character must not confine his observations to the metropolis. 
He must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn in villages 
and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages ; 
he must wander through parks and gardens ; along hedges and 
green lanes ; he must loiter about country churches ; attend 
wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals; and cope with the 
people in all their conditions, and all their habits and humors. 

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and fash- 
ion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and 
intelligent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by 
boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metropolis 
is a mere gathering-place, or general rendezvous, of the polite 
classes, where they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry 
of gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of carni- 
val, return again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural 
life. The various orders of society are therefore diffused over 




78 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the whole surface of the kingdom, and the most retired neighbor- 
hoods afford specimens of the different ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling. 
They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a 
keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. 
This passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of 
cities, born and brought up among brick walls and bustling 
streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for 
rural occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the 
vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride 
and zeal in the cultivation of his flower-garden, and the maturing 
of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his business, and the 
success of a commercial enterprise. Even those less fortunate 
individuals, who are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of 
din and traffic, contrive to have something that shall remind them 
of the green aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy quar- 
ters of the city, the drawing-room window resembles frequently a 
bank of flowers ; every spot capable of vegetation has its grass- 
plot and flower-bed ; and every square its mimic park, laid out 
with picturesque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to form 
an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is either 
absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand engagements 
that dissipate time, thought, and feeling, in this huge metropolis. 
He has, therefore, too commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. 
Wherever he happens to be, he is on the point of going some- 
where else ; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind 
is wandering to another ; and while paying a friendly visit, he is 
calculating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other 
visits allotted in the morning. An immense metropolis, like 



X 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 79 



London, is calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting. In 
their casual and transient meetings, they can but deal briefly in 
commonplaces. They present but the cold superficies of charac- 
ter — its rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed into 
a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his 
natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formali- 
ties and negative civilities of town ; throws off his habits of shy 
reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to 
collect round him all the conveniences and elegancies of polite 
life, and to banish its restraints. His country-seat abounds with 
every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratifica- 
tion, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, 
and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no 
constraint either upon his guests or himself, but in the true spirit 
of hospitality provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves every 
one to partake according to his inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in 
what is called landscape gardening, is unrivaled. They have 
studied nature intently, and discover an exquisite sense of her 
beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms, 
which in other countries she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here 
assembled round the haunts of domestic life. TJiey seem to have 
caught her coy and furtive graces, and spread them, like witch- 
ery, about their rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of 
English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of 
vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping 
up rich piles of foliage : the solemn pomp of groves and wood- 
land glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them ; 




80 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the hare, bounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly 
bursting upon the wing : the brook, taught to wind in natural 
meanderings, or expand into a glassy lake : the sequestered pool, 
reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its 
bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters ; 
while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown green and dank 
with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but what 
most dehghts me, is the creative talent with which the English 
decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest 
habitation, the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in 
the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. 
With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its 
capabilities, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The 
sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the 
operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be 
perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees ; the cau- 
tious pruning of others ; the nice distribution of flowers and plants 
of tender and graceful foliage ; the introduction of a green slope 
of velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or 
silver gleam of water : all these are managed with a delicate tact, 
a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with 
which a painter finishes up a favorite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the 
country has diffused a idegree of taste and elegance in rural 
economy, that descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, 
with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to 
their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grassplot before the 
door, the little flower-bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine 
trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. til 



lattice, the pot of flowers in the window, the holly, piovidently 
planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and to 
throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside : all 
these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from high 
sources, and pervading the lowest levels of the pubHc mind. K 
ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the 
cottage of an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the 
English has had a great and salutary effect upon the national 
character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English 
gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which char- 
acterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union 
of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of 
complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so 
much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating 
recreations of the country. These hardy exercises produce also a 
healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity 
of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town 
cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the 
country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach 
more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favorably 
upon each other. The distinctions between them do not appear 
to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner in 
which property has been distributed into small estates and farms 
has ^stab^shed a regular gradation frgm the nobleman, through 
the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial 
farmers, down to the laboring peasantry ; and while it has thus 
banded the extremes of society together, has infused into each 
intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be 
confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it was 

4* 



82 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



formerly; the larger estates having, in late years of distress, 
absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the country, almost 
annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, 
I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I have 
mentioned. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It 
leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; 
it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by 
the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a 
man may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The 
man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an inter- 
course with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he 
casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside 
his distance and reserve, and is glad to wave the distinctions of 
rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common 
life. Indeed the very amusements of the country bring men 
more and more together ; and the sound of hound and horn blend 
all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why 
the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior or- 
ders in England than they are in any other country ; and why 
the lattfer hav« endured so many excessive pressures and extremi- 
ties, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution 
of fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be 
attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; 
the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incompara- 
ble descriptions of nature that abound in the British poets, that 
have continued down from " the Flower and the Leaf" of Chau- 
cer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fra- 
grance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 
\ 



83 



countries appear as if they had paid nature an occasional visit, 
and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British 
poets have lived and reveled with her — they have wooed her in 
her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. 
A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle 
to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a 
fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy 
unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by 
these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into 
some beautiful morality. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupa- 
tions has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great 
part of the island is rather level, and would be monotonous, were 
it not for the charms of culture : but it is studded and gemmed, 
as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks 
and gardens. It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, 
but rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered 
quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a 
picture : and as the roads are continually winding, and the view 
is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a con- 
tinual succession of small landscapes of captivating loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral 
feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind 
with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-established princi- 
ples, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Every thing seems 
to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The 
old church of remote architecture, with its low massive portal ; 
its gothic tower ; its windows rich with tracery and painted glass, 
in scrupulous preservation ; its stately monuments of warriors and 
worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the 



84 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



soil ; its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeo- 
manry, whose progeny still plough the same fields, and kneel at 
the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly 
antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages 
and occupants — the stile and footpath leading from the church- 
yard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge-rows, according 
to an immemorial right of way — the neighboring village, with its 
venerable cottages, its public green sheltered by trees, under 
which the forefathers of the present race have sported — the an- 
tique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, 
but looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene : 
all these common features of English landscape evince a calm 
and settled security, and hereditary transmission of homebred 
virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly 
for the moral character of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell is 
sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the 
peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces and modest cheer- 
fulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church ; but 
it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering 
about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble 
comforts and embellishments which their own hands have spread 
around them. 

It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of affection 
in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent, of the steadiest 
virtues and purest enjoyments ; and I cannot close these desultory 
remarks better, than by quoting the words of a modern English 
poet, who has depicted it with remarkable felicity : 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall. 
The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 



85 



But chief from modest mansions numberless. 

In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 

Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof'd shed ; 

This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 

Where bliss domestic finds a dwelUng-place ; 

Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 

(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 

Can centre in a little quiet nest 

All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 

That can, the world eluding, be itself 

A world enjoy'd ; that wants no witnesses 

But its own sharers, and approving heaven ; 

That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft. 

Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky* 



* From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend 
Rann Kennedy, A. M. 



THE BROKEN HEART. 



I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MlDDLETOH. 



It is a common practice with those who have outlived the suscep- 
tibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the gay 
heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to 
treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelists 
and poets. My observations on human nature have induced me to 
think otherwise. They have convinced me, that however the 
surface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the cares 
of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, 
still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest 
bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are 
sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I am a true be- 
liever in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of his doctrines. 
Shall I confess it ? — I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility 
of dying of disappointed love. I do not, however, consider it a 
malady often fatal to my own sex ; but I firmly believe that it 
withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature 
leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the 
intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space 
in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a 
woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is 
her world : it is there her ambition strives for empire ; it is there 
her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her 
sympathies on adventure ; she embarks her whole soul in the 
traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless — for 
it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some bit- 
ter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it blasts some 
prospects of felicity ; but he is an aictive being — ^he may dissipate 
his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into 
the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of disappointment be too full 
of painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking 
as it were the wings of the morning, can " fly to the uttermost 
parts of the earth, and be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and medi- 
tative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and 
feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where 
shall she look for consolation ? Her lot is to be wooed and won ; 
and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that 
has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks 
grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and 
none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the 
dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the 
arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of woman to 
hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. The love 
of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when fortu- 



THE BROKEN HEART. 



nate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she 
buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and 
brood among the ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the 
heart has failed. The great charm of existence is at an end. 
She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, 
quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents 
through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet refreshment 
of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — " dry sorrow drinks 
her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest 
external injury. Look for her, after a little while, and you find 
friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that 
one, who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and 
beauty, should so speedily be brought down to " darkness and the 
worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual 
indisposition, that laid her low ; — but no one knows of the mental 
malady which previously sapped her strength, and made her so 
easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the 
grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm 
preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, when it 
should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its 
branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and 
perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest ; and as 
we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the 
blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste and 
self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as 
if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied 
that I could trace their death through the various declensions of 
consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached 



90 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the 
kind was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known in the 
country where they happened, and I shall but give them in the 
manner in which they were related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E , 

the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. 
During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and exe- 
cuted, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression 
on public sympathy. He was so young— so intelligent — so gene- 
rous — so brave — so every thing that we are apt to hke in a young 
man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. 
The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of 
treason against his country — the eloquent vindication of his name 
— and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of 
condemnation — all these entered deeply into every generous 
bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that 
dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossi- 
ble to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won 
the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of 
a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disin- 
terested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When every 
worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in for- 
tune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she 
loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, 
his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must 
have been the agony of her, whose whole soul was occupied by 
his image! Let those tell who have had the portals of the 
tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most 
loved on earth — who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out 



THE BROKEN HEART. 91 



in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and 
loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so dis- 
honored ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that could 
soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender though 
melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene — 
nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the 
dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of 
anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had in- 
curred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, 
and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympa- 
thy and kind ofl&ces of friends have reached a spirit so shocked 
and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want 
of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous 
sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were 
paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into 
society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement 
to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of 
her loves. But it was aU in vain. There are some strokes of 
calamity which scathe and scorch the soul — which penetrate to the 
vital seat of happiness — and blast it, never again to put forth 
bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of 
pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of soli- 
tude ; walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of 
the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that 
mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and " heeded not 
the song of the chai-mer, charm he never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas- 
querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness 



(W 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To 
find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all 
around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, 
and looking so wan and wobegone, as if it had tried in vain to 
cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. 
After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with 
an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down -on the steps of 
an orchestra, and, looking about for some time with a vacant 
air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, 
with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plain- 
tive air. She had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it 
was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of 
wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, 
and melted every one into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great 
interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely 
won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, 
and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove 
affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her 
thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her for- 
mer lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not 
her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her convic- 
tion of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and depend- 
ent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In 
a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with 
the solemn assurance, that her heart was unalterably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene 
might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an 
amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy 
one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy 



THE BROKEN HEART. 



93 



that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, 
but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim 
of a broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, com- 
posed the following lines : 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps. 

And lovers around her are sighing : 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps. 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains. 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died. 
They were all that to life had entwmed him — 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 



Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest. 
When they promise a glorious morrow ; 

They'll shine o'er her sleep, Uke a smile from the west. 
From her own loved island of sorrow ! 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKINU. 



" If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ' It is a greater oifence to steal dead men': 
labor, than their clothes,' what shall become of most writers?" 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 



I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, 
and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which nature 
seemed to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem 
with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in 
the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is 
continually finding out some very simple cause for some great 
matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations 
about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which 
unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, 
and at once put an end to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons 
of the British Museum, with that listlessness with which one is 
apt to saunter about a museum in warm weather; sometimes 
lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the 
hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, 
with nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings 
on the lofty* ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, 
my attention was attracted to a distant door, at the end of a suit 
of apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it would 



96 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



open, and some strange-favored being, generally clotlied in black, 
would steal forth, and glide through the rooms, without noticing 
any of the surrounding objects. There was an air of mystery 
about this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to 
attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown 
regions beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with that facility 
with which the portals of enchanted castles yield -to the adventur- 
ous knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious chamber, sur- 
rounded with great cases of venerable books. Above the cases, 
and just under the cornice, were arranged a great number of 
black-looking portraits of ancient authors. About the room were 
placed long tables, with stands for reading and writing, at which 
sat many pale, studious personages, poring intently over dusty 
volumes, rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking 
copious notes of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned 
through this mysterious apartment, excepting that you might 
hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occasionally, the 
deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his position to turn 
over the page of an old folio ; doubtless arising from that hol- 
lowness and flatulency incident to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write something 
on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar 
would appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of the 
room, and return shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon 
which the other would fall tooth and nail with famished voracity. 
I had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body of 
mao-i, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene 
reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut up in 
an enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, which opened 
only once a year ; where he made the spirits of the place bring 



i 

i 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 



97 



him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of 
the year, when the magic portal once more swung open on its 
hinges, he issued. forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able 
to soar above the heads of the multitude, and to control the pow- 
ers of nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of 
the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an 
interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words were 
sufficient for the purpose. I found that these mysterious person- 
ages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally authors, 
and in the very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in 
the reading-room of the great British Library — an immense col- 
lection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of which are 
now forgotten, and most of which are seldom read : one of these 
sequestered pools of obsolete literature, to which modern authors 
repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or " pure English, 
undefiled," wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner, 
and watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed 
one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most 
worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently 
constructing some work of profound erudition, that would be 
purchased by every man who wished to be thought learned, 
placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open upon 
his table ; but never read. I observed him, now and then, draw 
a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; whether 
it was his dinner, or whether he Avas endeavoring to keep off that 
exhaustion of the stomach produced by much pondering over dry 
works, I leave to harder students than myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored 

5 



98 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of countenance, who 
had all the appearance of an author on good terms with his book- 
seller. After considering him attentively, I recognized in him a 
diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, which bustled off well 
with the trade. I was curious to see how he manufactured his 
wares. He made more stir and show of business than any of the 
others ; dipping into various books, fluttering ovel* the leaves of 
manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, 
" line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a 
little." The contents of his book seemed to be as heterogeneous 
as those of the witches' caldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger 
and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind-worm's sting, Avith his 
own gossip poured in like " baboon's blood," to make the medley 
" slab and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be im- 
planted in authors for wise purposes ; may it not be the way in 
which Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge 
and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the 
inevitable decay of the works in which they were first produced ? 
We see that nature has wisely, though whimsically, provided for 
the conveyance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of cer- 
tain birds ; so that animals which, in themselves, are little better 
than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers of the orchard 
and the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's carriers to disperse and 
perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties and fine 
thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are caught up by these 
flights of predatory writers, and cast forth again to flourish and 
bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. Many of their 
works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up 
under new forms. What wa^; formerly a ponderous history re- 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 



99 



vives in the shape of a romance — an old legend changes into a 
modern play — and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the 
body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus 
it is in the clearing of our American woodlands ; where we burn 
down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up 
in their place : and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree 
mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into 
which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the great 
law of nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes of matter 
shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, that 
their elements shall never perish. Generation after generation, 
both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital prin- 
ciple is transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to 
flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and having pro- 
duced a numerous progeny, in a good old age they sleep with 
their fathers, that is to say, with the authors who preceded them 
— and from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had leaned 
my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it was owing 
to the soporific emanations from these works ; or to the profound 
quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude arising from much wander- 
ing ; or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper times and 
places, with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell 
into a doze. Still, however, my imagination continued busy, and 
indeed the same scene remained before my mind's eye, only a 
little changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the chamber 
was still decorated with the portraits of ancient authors, but that 
the number was increased. The long tables had disappeared, 
and, in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare 



100 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



throng, such as may be seen plying about the great repository of 
cast-off clothes, Monmouth-street. Whenever they seized upon 
a book, by one of those incongruities common to dreams, me- 
thought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique fashion, 
with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, how- 
ever, that no one pretended to clothe himself from any particular 
suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a skirt from 
a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his 
original rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed 
ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. 
He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the 
old fathers, and, having purloined the gray beard of another, en- 
deavored to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking common- 
place of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of wis- 
dom. One sickly-looking gentleman w^as busied embroidering a 
very flimsy garment w4th gold thread drawn out of several old 
court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had 
trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manuscript, 
had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from " The Paradise of 
Daintie Devices," and having put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one 
side of his head, strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar ele- 
gance. A third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered 
himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure tracts 
of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front ; but he was 
lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that he had patched 
his small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin author. 

There w^ere some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only 
helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their 
own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 



101 



contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe 
their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but I 
grieve to say, that too many were apt to array themselves from 
top to toe, in the patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall 
not omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and 
an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, 
but whose rural wanderings had been confined to the classic 
haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the Regent's Park. 
He had decked himself in wreaths and ribands from all the old 
pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one side, went about with 
a fantastical lack-a-daisical air, "babbling about green fields." 
But the personage that most struck my attention was a pragmati- 
cal old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably large and 
square, but bald head. He entered the room wheezing and 
puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturdy 
self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, 
clapped it upon his head, and swept majestically away in a for- 
midable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly 
resounded from every side, of " Thieves ! thieves !" I looked, 
and lo ! the portraits about the wall became animated ! The old 
authors thrust out, first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, 
looked down curiously, for an instant, upon the motley throng, 
and then descended with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled 
property. The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued 
baffles all description. The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain 
to escape with plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen 
old monks, stripping a modern professor ; on another, there was 
sad devastation carried into the ranks of modern dramatic wri- 
ters. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field 



103 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more 
wonders than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As 
to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some time 
since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as 
Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants 
about him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved 
to see many men, to whom I had been accustomed to look up 
with awe and reverence, fain to steal off wdth scarce a rag to 
cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by the 
pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was 
scrambling away in sore affright with half a score of authors in 
full cry after him ! They were close upon his haunches : in a 
twinkling off went his wig ; at every turn some strip of raiment 
was peeled away ; until in a few moments, from his domineering 
pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, " chopped bald shot," and 
made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his 
back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this 
learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, 
which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were 

4 

Sit an end. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. The 
old authors shrunk back into their picture-frames, and hung in 
shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, I found myself 
wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of book- 
worms gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream 
had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound never before 
heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of 
wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether 
I had a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him. 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 



103 



but I soon found that the library was a kind of literary " pre- 
serve," subject to game-laws, and that no one must presume to 
hunt there without special license and permission. In a word, I 
stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make 
a precipitate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors 
let loose upon me. 



A ROYAL POET. 



Though your body be confined, 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 
Neither check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

Fletcher. 



On a soft sunny morning, in the genial month of May, I made 
an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied and 
poetical associations. The very external aspect of the proud old 
pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irregular walls 
and massive towers, like a mural crown, round the brow of a lofty 
ridge, waves its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down, with 
a lordly air, upon the surrounding world. 

On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous vernal 
kind, which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's tempera- 
ment, filling his mind with music, and disposing him to quote 
poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through the magni- 
ficent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle, I passed with 
indifference by whole rows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, 
but lingered in the chamber, where hang the likenesses of the 
beauties which graced the gay court of Charles the Second ; and 
as I gazed upon them, depicted with amorous, half-disheveled 

6* 



106 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir 
Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me to bask in the reflected 
rays of beauty. In traversing also the "large green courts," 
with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, and glancing along the 
velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the image of the tender, 
the gallant, but hapless Surry, and his account of his loiterings 
about them in his stripling days, when enamored of the Lady 
Geraldine — 

" With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 



In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the ancient 
Keep of the Castle, where James the First of Scotland, the pride 
and theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years 
of his youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray 
tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good pre- 
servation. It stands on a mound, which elevates it above the 
other parts of the castle, and a great flight of steps leads to the 
interior. In the armory, a gothic hall, furnished with weapons 
of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging 
against the wall, which had once belonged to James. Hence I 
was conducted up a staircase to a suit of apartments of faded 
magnificence, hung with storied tapestry, which formed his prison, 
and the scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, which has 
woven into the web of his story the magical hues of poetry and 
fiction. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is 
highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent from 
home by his father, Robert III., and destined for the French 
court, to be reared under the eye of the French monarch, secure 



A ROYAL POET. 107 



from the treachery and danger that surrounded the royal house 
of Scotland. It was his mishap in the course of his voyage to 
fall into the hands of the English, and he was detained prisoner 
by Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce existed between the 
two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of many 
sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. " The 
news," we are told, " was brought to him w^hile at supper, and 
did so overwhelm him with grief, that he was almost ready to 
give up the ghost into the hands of the servant that attended him. 
But being carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from all food, 
and in three days died of hunger and grief, at Rothesay."* 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; but 
though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the 
respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all the 
branches of useful knowledge cultivated at that period, and to 
give him those mental and personal accomplishments deemed 
proper for a prince. Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment 
was an advantage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more 
exclusively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich 
fund of knowledge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, which 
have given such a lustre to his memory. The picture drawn of 
him in early life, by the Scottish historians, is highly captivating, 
/and seems rather the description of a hero of romance, than of a 
character in real history. He was well learnt, we are told, " to 
fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to wrestle, to sing and 
dance ; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in playing both 

* Buchanan. 



108 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



of lute and harp, and sundry other instruments of music, and 
was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry."* 

With this combination of manly and delicate accomplishments, 
fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and calculated 
to give him an intense relish for joyous existence, it must have 
been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to pass the 
spring-time of his years in monotonous captivity. It was the 
good fortune of James, however, to be gifted with a powerful 
poetic fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the choicest inspi- 
rations of the muse. Some minds corrode a,nd grow inactive, 
under the loss of personal Hberty ; others grow morbid and irrita- 
ble ; but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and ima- 
ginative in the loneliness of confinement. He banquets upon the 
honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth 
his soul in melody. 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
In that her lonely hermitage ! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.t 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is 
irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is shut out, 
it can create a world for itself, and with a necromantic power, can 
conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, to 
make solitude populous, and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. 



* Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. 

t Roger L'Estrange. 



A ROYAL POET. 



109 



Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso 
in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid 
scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider the " King's 
Quair," composed by James, during his captivity at Windsor, as 
another of those beautiful breakings-forth of the soul from the 
restraint and gloom of the prison house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane Beau- 
fort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of the blood 
royal of England, of whom he became enamored in the course 
of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value, is that it may 
be considered a transcript of the royal bard's true feelings, and 
the story of his real loves and fortunes. It is not often that sove- 
reigns write poetry, or that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to 
the pride of a common man, to find a monarch thus suing, as it 
were, for admission into his closet, and seeking to win his favor 
by administering to his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest 
equality of intellectual competition, which strips off all the trap- 
pings of factitious dignity, brings the candidate down to a level 
with his fellow men, and obliges him to depend on his own native 
powers for distinction. It is curious, too, to get at the history of 
a monarch's heart, and to find the simple affections of human 
nature throbbing under the ermine. But James had learnt to be 
a poet before he was a king : he was schooled in adversity, and 
reared in the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have 
seldom time to parley with their hearts, or to meditate their minds 
into poetry ; and had James been brought up amidst the adula- 
tion and gayety of a court, we should never, in all probability, 
have had such a poem as the Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem 
which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, or 



110 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



which are connected with the apartment in the tower. They have 
thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such circum- 
stantial truth, as to make the reader present with the captive in 
his prison, and the companion of his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, 
and of the incident which first suggested the idea of writing the 
poem. It was the still midwatch of a clear moonlight night ; the 
stars, he says, were twinkling as fire in the high vault of heaven ; 
and " Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius." He lay in 
bed wakeful and restless, and took a book to beguile the tedious 
hours. The book he chose was Boetius' Consolations of Philoso- 
phy, a work popular among the writers of that day, and which 
had been translated by his great prototype Chaucer. From the 
high eulogium in which he indulges, it is evident this was one of 
his favorite volumes while in prison : and indeed it is an admira- 
ble text-book for meditation under adversity. It is the legacy of 
a noble and enduring spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, 
bequeathing to its successors in calamity the maxims of sweet 
morality, and the trains of eloquent but simple reasoning, by 
which it was enabled to bear up against the various ills of life. 
It is a talisman, which the unfortunate may treasure up in his 
bosom, or, like the good King James, lay upon his nightly 
pillow. 

After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in his 
mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness of 
fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that had 
overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears the 
bell ringing to matins ; but its sound, chiming in with liis melan- 
choly fancies, seems to him like a voice exhorting him to write 
his story. In the spirit of poetic errantly he determines to com- 



A ROYAL POET. 



Ill 



ply with this intimation : he therefore takes pen in hand, makes 
with it a sign of the cross to implore a benediction, and salUes 
forth into the fairy land of poetry. There is something extremely 
fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as furnishing a striking and 
beautiful instance of the simple manner in which whole trains of 
poetical thought are sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises 
suggested to the mind. 

In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the 
peculiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely and inactive 
life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world, in 
which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained. There is a 
sweetness, however, in his very complaints ; they are the lamenta- 
tions of an amiable and social spirit at being denied the indul- 
gence of its kind and generous propensities ; there is nothing in 
them harsh nor exaggerated ; they flow with a natural and 
touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered more touching by their 
simple brevity. They contrast finely with those elaborate and 
iterated repinings, which we sometimes meet with in poetry ; — 
the effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries of their 
own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an unoffending 
world. James speaks of his privations with acute sensibility, but 
having mentioned them passes on, as if his manly mind disdained 
to brood over unavoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks 
forth into complaint, however brief, we are aware how great must 
be the suffering that extorts the murmur. We sympathize with 
James, a romantic, active, and accomplished prince, cut off in the 
lustihood of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and 
vigorous delights of life ; as we do with Milton, alive to all the 
beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes forth brief, 
but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual blindness. 



112 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we 
might almost have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy 
reflection were meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his 
story ; and to contrast with that refulgence of light and loveliness, 
that exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song, and foliage 
and flower, and all the revel of the year, with which he ushers in 
the lady of his heart. It is this scene, in particular, which throws 
all the magic of romance about the old castle keep. He had 
risen, he says, at daybreak, according to custom, to escape from 
the dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. " Bewailing in his 
chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy and remedy, " forfcired 
of thought and wobegone," he had wandered to the window, to 
indulge the captive's miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon 
the world from which he is excluded. The window looked forth 
upon a small garden which lay at the foot of the tower. It was 
a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, and 
protected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges. 

Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, 

A garden faire, and in the corners set 
An arbour green with wandis long and small 

Railed about, and so with leaves beset 
Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet. 

That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye 

That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 

Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 
And midst of every arbour might be sene 



* Lyf, person. 



A ROYAL POET. 



113 



The sharpe, grene, swete juniper. 
Growing so fair, with branches here and there. 
That as it seemed to a lyf without, 
•The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

And on the small grene twistis* set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 
So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 

Of lovis use, now soft, now load among, * 

That all the garden and the wallis rung 
Right of their song 

It was the montli of May, when every thing was in bloom ; 
and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language of 
his enamored feeling : 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, 

For of your bliss the kalends are begun. 
And sing with us, away, winter, away. 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 



As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the 
birds, he gradually relapses into one of those tender and unde- 
finable reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious 
season. He wonders what this love may be, of which he has so 
often read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening 
breath of May, and melting all nature into ecstasy and song. If 
it really be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally 
dispensed to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone cut 
off from its enjoyments ? 

* Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 

Note. — The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 



114 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be. 

That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? 

Loving his folke, and such prosperitee 
Is it of him, as we in books do find : 
May he cure hertes setten* and unbynd : 

Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye ? 

Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? 

For gifF he be of so grete excellence, 

That he of every wight hath care and charge. 

What have I gilt t to him, or done offense. 
That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large 1 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he 
beholds " the fairest and the freshest young floure " that ever he 
had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to 
enjoy the beauty of that " fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus 
suddenly upon his sight, in the moment of loneliness and excited 
susceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the romantic 
prince, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, the 
sovereign of his ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance to 
the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale ; where Palamon and 
Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the 
garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual fact 
to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may have induced 
James to dwell on it in his poem. His description of the Lady 
Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner of his mas- 
ter ; and being doubtless taken from the life, is a perfect portrait 
of a beauty of that day. He dwells, with the fondness of a lover, 
on every article of her apparel, from the net of pearl, splen- 



Setten, incline. 



t Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 



A ROYAL POET, 



115 



dent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined her golden hair, 
even to the " goodly chaine of small orfeverye " * about her neck, 
whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he 
says, like a spark of fire burning upon her white bosom. Her 
dress of white tissue was looped up to enable her to walk with 
more freedom. She was accompanied by two female attendants, 
and about her sported a little hound decorated with bells ; proba- 
bly the small Italian hound of exquisite symmetry, which was a 
parlor favorite and pet among the fashionable dames of ancient 
times. James closes his description by a burst of general eu- 
logium : 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature ; 

God better know^s than my pen can report. 

Wisdom, largesse,t estate,t and cunning § sure. 

In every point so guided her measure. 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance. 
That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end 
to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous 
illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his 
captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold 
more intolerable by this passing beam of unattainable beauty. 
Through the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, 
and when evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully 
expresses it, had " bade farewell to every leaf and flower," he 
still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon the cold 



* Wrought gold, 
t Estate, dignity. 



t Largesse, bounty. 
§ Cunning, discretion. 



IIG 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until, 
gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of the twilight hour, he 
lapses, " half sleeping, half swoon," into a vision, which occupies 
the remainder of the poem, and in which is allegorically shadowed 
out the history of his passion. 

When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony 
pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections, ques- 
tions his spirit whither it has been wandering ; whether, indeed, 
all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured 
up by preceding circumstances ; or whether it is a vision, intended 
to comfort and assure him in his despondency. If the latter, he 
prays that some token may be sent to confirm the promise of 
happier days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a turtle 
dove, of the purest whiteness, comes flying in at the window, and 
alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch of red gilli- 
flower, on the leaves of which is written, in letters of gold, the 
following sentence : 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 

The newis glad that bHssfiil is, and sure 

Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing. 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 



He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ; reads 
it with rapture : and this, he says, was the first token of his suc- 
ceeding happiness. Whefther this is a mere poetic fiction, or 
whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her 
favor in this romantic way, remains to be determined according 
to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem, by 
intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision and by the 



A ROYAL POET. 



117 



flower is fulfilled, by his being restored to liberty, and made 
happy in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James of his love 
adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute fact, 
and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to con- 
jecture : let us not, however, reject every romantic incident as 
incompatible with real life ; but let us sometimes take a poet at 
his word. I have noticed merely those parts of the poem imme- 
diately connected with the tower, and have passed over a large 
part, written in the allegorical vein, so much cultivated at that 
day. The language, of course, is quaint and antiquated, so that 
the beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely be per- 
ceived at the present day ; but it is impossible not to be charmed 
with the genuine sentiment, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, 
which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of nature too, with 
which it is embellished, are given with a truth, a discrimination, 
and a freshness, worthy of the most cultivated periods of the art. 

As an amatory poem, it is edifying in these days of coarser 
thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite delicacy 
which pervade it; banishing every gross thought or immodest 
expression, and presenting female loveliness, clothed in all its 
chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. 

James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, 
and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. 
Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his mas- 
ters ; and, in some parts of his poem, we find traces of similai ity 
to their productions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There 
are always, however, general features of resemblance in the works 
of contemporary authors, which are not so much borrowed from 
each other as from the times. Writers, like bees, toll their sweets 



lis 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



in the wide world ; they incorporate with their own conceptions 
the anecdotes and thoughts current in society ; and thus each 
generation has some features in common, characteristic of the age 
in which it lived. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary 
history, and establishes the claims of his country to a participa- 
tion in its primitive honors. Whilst a small cluster of English 
writers are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name 
of their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in silence ; 
but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little constel- 
lation of remote but never-failing luminaries, who shine in the 
highest firmament of literature, and who, like morning stars, sang 
together at the bright dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish his- 
tory (though the manner in which it has of late been woven with 
captivating fiction has made it a universal study) may be curious 
to learn something of the subsequent history of James, and the 
fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it was 
the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, it being 
imagined by the court that a connexion with the blood royal of 
England would attach him to its own interests. He was ultimately 
restored to his liberty and crown, having previously espoused the 
Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and made him a 
most tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chieftains 
having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities of a 
long interregnum to strengthen themselves in their possessions, 
and place themselves above the power of the laws. James sought 
to found the basis of his power in the affections of his people. 
lie attached the lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, 



A ROYAL POET. 



1L9 



the temperate and equable administration of justice, the encour- 
agement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of every thing 
that could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent enjoyment 
through the humblest ranks of society. He minged occasionally 
among the common people in disguise ; visited their firesides ; 
entered into their cares, their pursuits, and their amusements ; 
informed himself of the mechanical arts, and how they could best 
be patronized and improved; and was thus an all-pervading 
spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over the meanest of his sub- 
jects. Having in this generous manner made himself strong in 
the hearts of the common people, he turned himself to curb the 
power of the factious nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous 
immunities which they had usurped ; to punish such as had been 
guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring the whole into proper 
obedience to the crown. For some time they bore this with out- 
ward submission, but with secret impatience and brooding resent- 
ment. A conspiracy was at length formed against his life, at the 
head of which was his own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, 
who, being too old himself for the perpetration of the deed of 
blood, instigated his grandson Sir Robert Stewart, together with 
Sir Robert Graham, and others of less note, to commit the deed. 
They broke into his bedchamber at the Dominican Convent near 
Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously murdered hira by 
oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to throw her 
tender body between him and the sword, was twice wounded in 
the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the assassin ; and it was 
not until she had been forcibly torn from his person, that the mur- 
der was accomplished. 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, 
and of the golden little poem which had its birthplace in this 



120 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than common 
interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, richlj gilt and 
embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the image of 
the gallant and romantic prince vividly befo*-e my imagination. 
I paced the deserted chambers where he had composed his poem ; 
I leaned upon the window, and endeavored to persuade myself 
it was the very one where he had been visited by his vision ; 
I looked out upon the spot where he had first seen the Lady 
Jane. It was the same genial and joyous month ; the birds were 
again vjdng with each other in strains of liquid melody ; every 
thing was bursting into vegetation, and budding forth the tender 
promise of the year. Time, which delights to obliterate the 
sterner memorials of human pride, seems to have passed lightly 
over this little scene of poetry and love, and to have withheld his 
desolating hand. Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden 
still flourishes at the foot of the tower. It occupies what was 
once the moat of the keep ; and though some parts have been 
separated by dividing walls, yet others have still their arbors and 
shaded walks, as in the days of James, and the whole is sheltered, 
blooming, and retired. There is a charm about a spot that has 
been printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and consecrated 
by the inspirations of the poet, which is heightened, rather than 
impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry 
to hallow every place in which it moves ; to breathe around na- 
ture an odor more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to 
shed over it a tint more magical than the blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a war- 
rior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him merely as 
the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human 
heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of 



A ROYAL POET. 



12] 



poetry and song in the paths of common life. He was the first to 
cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which 
has since become so prolific of the most wholesome and highly- 
flavored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner regions of 
the north all the fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He did 
every thing in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the 
elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and refine the character of 
a people, and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a proud and 
warHke spirit. He wrote many poems, which, unfortunately for 
the fuUness of his fame, are now lost to the world ; one, which is 
still preserved, called " Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows how 
diligently he had made himself acquainted with the rustic sports 
and pastimes, which constitute such a source of kind and social 
feeling among the Scottish peasantry ; and with what simple and 
happy humor he could enter into their enjoyments. He contri- 
buted greatly to improve the national music ; and traces of his 
tender sentiment, and elegant taste, are said to exist in those 
witching airs, still piped among the wild mountains and lonely 
glens of Scotland. He has thus connected his image with what- 
ever is most gracious and endearing in the national character ; he 
has embalmed his memory in song, and floated his name to after 
ages in the rich streams of Scottish melody. The recollection of 
these things was kindling at my heart as I paced the silent scene 
of his imprisonment. I have visited Vaucluse with as much 
enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I 
have never felt more poetical devotion than when contemplating 
the old tower and the little garden at Windsor, and musing over 
the romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Eoyal Poet of 
Scotland. 



6 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 



A gentleman ! 
What, o' the woolpack 1 or the sugar-chest ? 
Or lists of velvet ? which is't, pound, or yard, 
You vend yonr gentry by? 

Beggar's Bush. 



There are few places more favorable to the study of character 
than an English country church. I was once passing a few 
weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, 
the appearance of which particularly struck my fancy. It was 
one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity which give such a 
peculiar charm to English landscape. It stood in the midst of a 
country filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold 
and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. 
The interior walls were incrusted with monuments of every age 
and style. The light streamed through windows dimmed with 
armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In various 
parts of the church were tombs of knights, and high-born dames, 
of gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies in colored marble. 
On every side the eye was struck with some instance of aspiring 
mortality ; some haughty memorial which human pride had 
erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of the most humble 
of all religions. 



124 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of 
rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and cushioned, fur- 
nished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with their 
arms upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, who 
filled the back seats, and a small gallery beside the organ ; and 
of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the 
aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling well-fed vicar, who 
had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged guest 
at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had been the keenest 
fox-hunter in the country ; until age and good living had disabled 
him from doing any thing more than ride to see the hounds throw 
off, and make one at the hunting dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossible to 
get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place : so, 
having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my 
conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another 
person's threshold, I occupied myself by making observations on 
my neighbors. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice the 
manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there 
was the least pretension where there was the most acknowledged 
title to respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with the 
family of a nobleman of high rank, consisting of several sons 
and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming 
than their appearance. They generally came to church in the 
plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would 
stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, 
caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cot- 
tagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 



12b 



an expression of high refinement, but, at the same time, a frank 
cheerfulness, and an engaging afFabihty. Their brothers were tall, 
and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but sim- 
ply ; with strict neatness and propriety, but without any manner- 
ism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, 
with that lofty grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak free- 
born souls that have never been checked iuv their growth by 
feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness about real 
dignity, that never dreads contact and communion with others, 
however humble. It is only spurious pride that is morbid and 
sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see 
the manner in which they would converse with the peasantry 
about those rural concerns and field-sports, in which the gentle- 
men of this country so much delight. In these conversations 
there was neither haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on the 
other ; and you were only reminded of the difference of rank by 
the habitual respect of the peasant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, who 
had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having purchased the estate 
and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighborhood, was 
endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of an hereditary 
lord of the soil. The family always came to church en prince. 
They were rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned 
with arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every 
part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A 
fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen 
wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the box, 
with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen, in gorgeous 
liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled behind. 
The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with peculiar 



L 



126 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



stateliness of motion. The very horses champed their bite, 
arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly than 
common horses ; either because they had caught a little of the 
family feeling, or were reined up more tightly than ordinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which this splendid 
pageant was brought up to the gate of the church-yard. There 
was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the 
wall ; — a great smacking of the whip, straining and scrambling 
of horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through 
gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vainglory to the 
coachman. The horses were urged and checked until they were 
fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing 
trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers 
sauntering quietly to church, opened precipitately to the right 
and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the gate, the 
horses were pulled up with a suddenness that produced an imme- 
diate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to alight, 
pull down jthe steps, and prepare every thing for the descent on 
earth of this august family. The old citizen first emerged his 
round red face from out the door, looking about him with the 
pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 'Change, and shake 
the Stock Market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, com- 
fortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but 
little pride in her composition. She was the picture of broad, 
honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with her ; and 
she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine house, a fine 
carriage, fine children, every thing was fine about her : it was 
nothing but driving about, and visiting and feasting. Life was to 
her a perpetual revel ; it was one long Lord Mayor's day. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 



1^7 



Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They cer- 
tainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air, that chilled 
admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. They were 
ultra-fashionable in dress; and, though no one could deny the 
richness of their decorations, yet their appropriateness might be 
questioned amidst the simplicity of a country church. They 
descended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of 
peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. 
They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over 
the burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the 
nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately bright- 
ened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant 
courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they 
were but slight acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who 
came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They were 
arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of 
dress which marks the man of questionable pretensions to style. 
They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every one askance that 
came near them, as if measuring his claims to respectability ; yet 
they were without conversation, except the exchange of an occa- 
sional cant phrase. They even moved artificially ; for their 
bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, had been disci- 
plined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had done 
every thing to accomplish them as men of fashion, but nature had 
denied them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly shaped, 
like men formed for the common purposes of life, and had that 
air of supercilious assumption which is never seen in the true 
gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these 



12.^ 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



two families, because I considered them specimens of what is 
often to be met with in this country — the unpretending great, and 
the arrogant Httle. I have no respect for titled rank, unless it be 
accompanied with true nobility of soul ; but I have remarked in 
all countries where artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest 
classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. Those 
who are well assured of their own standing are least apt to trespass 
on that of others : whereas nothing is so offensive as the aspi- 
rings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating 
its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice 
their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's family was 
quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have 
any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things, and 
sacred places, inseparable from good breeding. The others, on 
the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whisper ; they be- 
trayed a continual consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition 
of being the wonders of a rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the 
service. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon him- 
self, standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses with a loud 
voice that might be heard all over the church. It was evident 
that he was one of those thorough church and king men, who con- 
nect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who consider the Deity, 
somehow or other, of the government party, and religion " a very 
excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced and kept up." 

"When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by 
way of example to the lower orders, to show them that, though 
so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious ; as I have 
seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of charity 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 



129 



soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pronouncing it 
" excellent food for the poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the 
several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sis- 
ters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home across the 
fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The others 
departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were the equi- 
pages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smacking of 
AS'hips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glittering of harness. The 
horses started off almost at a bound ; the villagers again hurried 
to right and left ; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust ; and the 
aspiring family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 







^V;^/,r'^cr:in; 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd. 

Marrlowe's Tamburlaink. 

Those who are in the habit of remarking such matters musi 
have noticed the passive quiet of an English landscape on Sunday. 
The clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the 
flail, the din of the blacksmith's hammer, the whistling of the 
ploughman, the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of rural 
labor are suspended. The very farm-dogs bark less frequently, 
being less disturbed by passing travelers. At such times I have 
almost fancied the winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny land- 
scape, with its fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed 
the hallowed calm. 

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright. 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 



Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of 
rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, has 
its moral influence ; every restless passion is charmed down, and 
we feel the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within 
us. For my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a country 



132 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience 
no where else ; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better 
man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven. 

During my recent residence in the country I used frequently 
to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles ; its moul- 
dering monuments ; its dark oaken paneling, all reverend with 
the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it fcJr the haunt of 
solemn meditation ; but being in a wealthy aristocratic neighbor- 
hood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary; 
and I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the 
frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only 
being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel 
the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor 
decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and infir- 
mities. She bore the traces of something better than abject 
poverty. The lingerings of decent pride w^ere visible in her 
appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scru- 
pulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, 
for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone 
on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, 
all friendship, all society ; and to have nothing left her but the 
hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending 
her aged form in prayer; habilually conning her prayer-book, 
which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to 
read, but which she evidently knew by heart ; I felt persuaded 
that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far 
before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the 
chanting of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was 
so dehghtfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood 



HE WIDOW AND HER SON. 



133 



on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, 
and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow 
scenery. The church was surrounded by yew-trees which seemed 
almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly 
from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about 
it. I was seated there one still sunny morning, watching two 
laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the 
most remote and neglected corners of the church-yard ; where, from 
the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the 
indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told 
that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. 
Wliile I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which 
extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced 
the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of pov- 
erty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest 
materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of 
the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold 
indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of 
affected woe ; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered 
after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased — the 
poor old woman Avhom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. 
She Avas supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to 
comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, 
and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now 
shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with 
childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued 
from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book 
in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was 
a mere act of charily. The deceased had been destitute, and the 



134 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in 
form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but 
a few steps from the church door ; his voice could scarcely be 
heard at the grave ; and never did I hear the funeral service, 
that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid 
mummery of words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the gi'ound. 
On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased — " George 
Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to 
kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, 
as if in prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking of the 
body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on 
the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feel- 
ings of grief and affection ; directions given in the cold tones of 
business : the striking of spades into sand and gravel ; which, at 
the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. 
The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a v/retched 
reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a 
faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the 
coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an 
agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by 
the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper 
something like consolation — " Nay, now — nay, now — don't take 
it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her head and wring 
her hands, as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the 
cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental ob- 
struction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 



135 



the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who 
was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — my 
eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part 
in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. 
I wandered to another part of the church-yard, where I remained 
until the funeral train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her 
on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached 
for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! they 
have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to divert 
and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young ! 
Their growing minds soon close above the wound — their elastic 
spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and ductile 
affections soon twine round new objects. But the sorrows of the 
poor, who have no outward apphances to soothe — the sorrows of 
the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can 
look for no after-growth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, 
solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of 
her years ; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the im- 
potency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the church-yard. On my way 
homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter : 
she was just returning from accompanying the mother to her 
lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected 
with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from 
childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and 
by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, 



136 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a 
happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had grown 
up to be the staff and pride of their age. — "Oh, sir!" said the 
good woman, " he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so 
kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents ! It did 
one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his best, 
so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to church 
— for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm, than on 
her goodman's ; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, 
for a finer lad there was not in the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity 
and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the 
small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been 
long in this employ when he was entrapped by a press-gang, 
and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, 
but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their 
main prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless 
and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widow, left lonely 
in her age and feebleness, could no longer support herself, and 
came upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward her 
throughout the village, and a certain respect as being one of the 
oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage, in which 
she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remain 
in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few 
wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions 
of her little garden, which the neighbors would now and then 
cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time at which 
these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some 
vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door which 
faced the garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and 







li,ie>/-l)s 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 



137 



seemed to be looking eagerly and vdldly around. He was dressed 
in seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the 
air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and 
hastened towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering ; he 
sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor 
woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye — " Oh 
my dear, dear mother ! don't you know your son ? your poor boy 
George ?" It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad, who, 
shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, 
at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among 
the scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, 
where joy and sorrow were so completely blended : still he was 
alive! he was come home! he might yet live to comfort and 
cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in him ; 
and if any thing had been wanting to finish the work of fate, the 
desolation of his native cottage would have been sufficient. He 
stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had 
passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had re- 
turned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance 
that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, to 
talk — ^he could only look his thanks. His mother was his constant 
attendant ; and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other 
hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of 
manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feel- 
ings of infancy. WTio that has languished, even in advanced life, 
in sickness and despondency ; who that has pined on a weary bed 
in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land ; but has thought 



r.iS 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



on the motlier " that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his 
pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? Oh ! there is an 
enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to her son that trans- 
cends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled 
by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worth- 
lessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every com- 
fort to his convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his 
enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prospe- 
rity : — and, if misfortune overt&,ke him, he will be the dearer to 
her from misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name, 
she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and if 
all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sick- 
ness, and none to soothe — ^lonely and in prison, and none to visit 
him. He could not endure his mother from his sight; if she 
moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours 
by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start 
from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her 
bending over liim ; when he would take her hand, lay it on his 
bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this 
way he died. 

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction was 
to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary 
assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inqui- 
ry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to 
do every thing that the case admitted : and as the poor know best 
how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my 
surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to 
her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 



139 



She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for 
lier son ; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle 
between pious affection and utter poverty : a black riband or so — 
a faded black handkerchief, and one or two more such humble 
attempts to express by outward signs that grief which passes show. 
When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the stately 
hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned 
magnificently over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, 
bowed down by age and sorrow, at the altar of her God, and 
offering up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken 
heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth 
them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the 
congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted them- 
selves to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten 
her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the 
grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed 
from her usual seat at church, and before I left the neighborhood, 
I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly 
breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that 
world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never 
parted. 




i 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON.* 

In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in the 
country, and its tranquilizing effect upon the landscape ; but 
where is its sacred influence more strikingly apparent than in the 
very heart of that great Babel, London ? On this sacred day, the 
gigantic monster is charmed into repose. The intolerable din 
and struggle of the week are at an end. The shops are shut. 
The fires of forges and manufactories are extinguished; and the 
sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down 
a sober, yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The few pedes- 
trians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with anxious counte- 
nances, move leisurely along ; their brows are smoothed from the 
wrinkles of business and care ; they have put on their Sunday 
looks, and Sunday manners, with their Sunday clothes, and are 
cleansed in mind as well as in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers 
summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his 
mansion the family of the decent tradesman, the small children 
in the advance ; then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed 
by the grown-up daughters, with small morocco-bound prayer- 
books laid in the folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The house- 
maid looks after them from the window, admiring the finery of 



* Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions. 



142 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from her 
young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city, 
perad venture an alderman or a sheriff; and now the patter of 
many feet announces a procession of charity scholars, in uniforms 
of antique cut, and each with a prayer-book under his arm. 

The ringing of bells is at an end ; the rumbling of the car- 
riage has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; the 
flocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and 
corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle keeps 
watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the sanc- 
tuary. For a time every thing is hushed ; but soon is heard the 
deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and vibrating through 
the empty lanes and courts ; and the sweet chanting of the choir 
making them resound with melody and praise. Never have I 
been more sensible of the sanctifying effect of church music, than 
when I have heard it thus poured forth, like a river of joy, through 
the inmost recesses of this great metropolis, elevating it, as it 
were, from all the sordid pollutions of the week ; and bearing the 
poor world- worn soul on a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The streets are again alive 
with the congregations returning to their homes, but soon again 
relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which, to 
the city tradesman, is a meal of some importance. There is more 
leisure for social enjoyment at the board. Members of the family 
can now gather together, who are separated by the laborious oc- 
cupations of the week. A school-boy may be permitted on that 
day to come to the paternal home ; an old friend of the family 
txikes his accustomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over his well- 
known stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known jokes. 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON. 



143 



On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to breathe 
the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural envi- 
rons. Satirists may say what they please about the rural enjoy- 
ments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to me there is something 
delightful in beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty 
city enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw himself 
upon the green bosom of nature. He is like a child restored to 
the mother's breast ; and they who first spread out these noble 
parks and magnificent pleasure-grounds which surround this huge 
metropolis, have done at least as much for its health and morality, 
as if they had expended the amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, 
and penitentiaries. 




J 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 



A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH. 



" A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. I have heard my 
great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb 
when his great-grandfather was a chUd, that ' it was a good wind that blew a man to the 
wine.' " 

Mother Bombik. 



It is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to honor the 
memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their pictures. 
The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the number 
of these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the dark- 
ness of his Httle chapel ; another may have a soHtary lamp to 
throw its blinking rays athwart his ef^gj ; while the whole blaze 
of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beatified father of 
renown. The wealthy devotee brings liis huge luminary of wax ; 
the eager zealot his seven-branched candlestick, and even the 
mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient light is 
thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp of 
smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the eagerness to en- 
lighten, they are often apt to obscure ; and I have occasionally 
seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance by the 
officiousness of his followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakspeare. 

7 



146 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some por- 
tion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit from 
oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast 
tomes of dissertations ; the common herd of editors send up mists 
of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of each page ; and 
every casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or 
research, to swell the cloud of incense and of sinoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the qnill, 
I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the , 
memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, 
sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I found 
myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading; every 
doubtful line had been explained a dozen different ways, and per- 
plexed beyond the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine passages, 
they had all been amply praised by previous admirers ; nay, so 
completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with panegyric 
by a great German critic, that it was difficult now to find even a 
fault that had not been argued into a beauty. 

In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his pages, 
when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV, and 
was, in a moment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of the 
Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes 
of humor depicted, and with such force and consistency are the 
characters sustained, that they become mingled up in the mind 
with the facts and personages of real life. To few readers does 
it occur, that these are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and 
that, in sober truth, no such knot of merry roysters ever enlivened 
the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. 

For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of po- 
etry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 



147 



me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years since : and, 
if I may be excused such an insensibility to the common ties of 
human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the great 
men of ancient chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done 
for me, or men like me ? They have conquered countries of 
which I do not enjoy an acre ; or they have gained laurels of 
which I do not inherit a leaf ; or they have furnished examples 
of hair-brained prowess, which I have neither the opportunity 
nor the inchnation to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff ! — kind Jack 
Falstaff ! — sweet Jack Falstaff ! — has enlarged the boundaries of 
human enjoyment ; he has added vast regions of wit and good 
humor, in which the poorest man may revel ; and has bequeathed 
a never-failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind 
merrier and better to the latest posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me : " I will make a pilgrimage to 
Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, " and see if the old Boar's 
Head Tavern still exists. "Who knows but I may light upon some 
legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ; at any rate, 
there will be a kindred pleasure, in treading the halls once vocal 
w^ith their mirth, to that the toper enjoys in smelling to the empty 
cask once filled with generous wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. 
I forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I 
encountered in my travels ; of the haunted regions of Cock Lane ; 
of the faded glories of Little Biitain, and the parts adjacent ; 
what perils I ran in Cateaton-street and old Jewry ; of the re- 
nowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and won- 
der of the city, and the terror of all unlucky urchins ; and how I 
visited London Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in imitation 
of that arch rebel. Jack Cade. 



148 



THE SKETCH BOOK, 



Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry East- 
cheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very 
names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane bears 
testimony even at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old 
Stowe, " was always famous for its convivial doings. The cookes 
cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well baked, and other 
victuals : there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and 
sawtrie." Alas ! how sadly is the scene changed since the roar- 
ings days of Falstaff and old Stowe ! The madcap royster has 
given place to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of pots and 
the sound of " harpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts and the 
accursed dinging of the dustman's bell ; and no song is heard, 
save, haply, the strain of some siren from Billingsgate, chanting 
the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 

I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. 
The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in stone, 
which formerly served as the sign, but at present is built into the 
parting Ime of two houses, which stand on the site of the renowned 
old tavern. 

For the history of this little abode of good fellowship, i was 
referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had been 
born and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to as the 
indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. I found her seated 
in a little back parlor, the w^indow of which looked out upon a 
yard about eight feet square, laid out as a flower-garden ; while 
a glass door opposite afforded a distant peep of the street, through 
a vista of soap and tallow candles : the two views, which com- 
prised, in all probability, her prospects in life, and the little world 
in which she had lived, and moved, and had her being, for the 
better part of a century. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 



149 



To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from 
London Stone even unto the Monument, was, doubtless, in her 
opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the universe. Yet, 
with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and 
that liberal communicative disposition, which I have generally 
remarked in intelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of 
their neighborhood. 

Her infoi-mation, however, did not extend far back into anti- 
quity. She could throw no light upon the history of the Boar's 
Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant 
Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it was unfortunately 
burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and continued to flourish under 
the old name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse 
for double scores, bad measures, and other iniquities, which are 
incident to the sinful race of publicans, endeavored to make his 
peace with heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's 
Church, Crooked Lane, toward the supporting of a chaplain. 
For some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there ; 
but it was observed that the old Boar never held up his head 
under church government. He gradually declined, and finally 
gave his last ga.sp about thirty years since. The tavern was then 
turned into shops ; but she informed me that a picture of it was 
still preserved in St. Michael's Church, which stood just in the 
rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my determination ; 
so, having informed myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my 
leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having 
doubtless raised greatly her opinon of her legendary lore, and 
furnished an important incident in the history of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to ferret 
out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore 



150 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



Crooked Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark pas- 
sages, with which this old city is perforated, like an ancient cheese, 
or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length I traced him to a 
corner of a small court, surrounded by lofty houses, where the in- 
habitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven, as a commu- 
nity of frogs at the bottom of a well. The sexton was a meek, ac- 
quiescing little man, of a bowing, lowly habit : ye't he had a pleas- 
ant twinkling in his eye, and, if encouraged, would now and then 
hazard a small pleasantry ; such as a man of his low estate might 
venture to make in the company of high churchwardens, and 
other mighty men of the earth. I found him in company with 
the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels, discours- 
ing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and settling the affairs of 
the church over a friendly pot of ale — for the lower classes of 
English seldom deliberate on any weighty matter without the 
assistance of a cool tankard to clear their understandings. I 
arrived at the moment when they had finished their ale and their 
argument, and were about to repair to the church to put it in 
order ; so, having made known my wishes, I received their gra- 
cious permission to accompany them. 

The church of St. IMichael's, Crooked Lane, standing a short 
distance from Billingsgate, is enriched \yith the tombs of many 
fishmongers of renown ; and as every profession has its galaxy of 
glory, and its constellation of great men, I presume the monu- 
ment of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with 
as much reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as 
poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the 
monument of a Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but tura aside, while thus speaking of illustrious 
men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains also 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 



151 



the ashes of that doughty champion, William Walworth, knight, 
who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in 
Smithfield; a hero worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the 
only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms: — the 
sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned as the most 
pacific of all potentates.* 

Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under 
the back window of what was once the Boar's Head, stands the 
tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It 

* The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this wor- 
thy ; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration. 

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
William Walworth callyd by name ; 
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here. 
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; 
Who, with courage stout and manly myght. 
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
For which act done, and trew entent, 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ; 
And gave him armes, as here you see. 
To declare his fact and cMvaldrie. 
He left this lyfT the yere of our God 
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the venerable 

Stowe. " Whereas," saith he, " it hath been far spread abroad by vulgar 

opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, 

the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I 

thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by such testimony as I 

find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders, or captains, of the 

commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man ; the second was John, or Jack, 

Straw, etc., etc." 

Stowe's London. 



152 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



is now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good liquor 
closed his bustling career, and was thus quietly deposited within 
call of his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from 
his epitaph, the little sexton drew me on one side with a mysteri- 
ous air, and informed me in a low voice, that once upon a time, 
on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling, and 
whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling weather- 
cocks, so that the living were frightened out of their beds, and 
even the dead could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost 
of honest Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the 
church-yard, was attracted by the well-known call of " waiter " 
from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance in the 
midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was singing a 
stave from the " mirre garland of Captain Death ;" to the dis- 
comfiture of sundry train-band captains, and the conversion of an 
infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and 
was never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in the way 
of business. 

I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for 
the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is well known that 
the church-yards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very 
much infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must have 
heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the 
regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so many bold sentinels 
almost out of their wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been 
a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, who attended 
upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally prompt with 
his " anon, anon, sir ;" and to have transcended his predecessor in 
honesty ; for Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no man will 



■ULJUl. J 




THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 



153 



venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his 
sack ; whereas honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety 
of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his 
measure.* The worthy dignitaries of the church, however, did 
not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the tapster ; 
the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made 
some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought 
up among full hogsheads ; and the little sexton corroborated his 
opinion by a significant wink, and a dubious shake of the head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the 
history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disap- 
pointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture of the 
Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the 
church of St. Michael. " Marry and amen !" said I, " here end- 
eth my research I" So I was giving the matter up, with the air 
of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, perceiving me 
to be curious in every thing relative to the old tavern, offered to 

* As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the 
admonition of delinquent tapsters It is, no doubt, the production of some 
choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's Head. 



Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one sober son, and here he Ues. 
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined. 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependance, 
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 



154 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



show me the choice vessels of the vestrj, which had been handed 
down from remote times, when the parish meetings were held at 
the Boar's Head. These were deposited in the parish club-room, 
which had been transferred, on the decline of the ancient estab- 
lishment, to a tavern in the neighborhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 
^Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept 
by Master Edward Honeyball, the " bully-rock " of the establish- 
ment. It is one of those little taverns which abound in the heart 
of the city, and form the centre of gossip and intelligence of the 
neighborhood. We entered the bar-room, which was narrow and 
darkling ; for in these close lanes but few rays of reflected light 
are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad day 
is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned into 
boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean white cloth, 
ready for dinner. This showed that the guests were of the good 
old stamp, and divided their day equally, for it was but just one 
o'clock. At the lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, be- 
fore which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass 
candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the mantle-piece, 
and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one corner. There was some- 
thing primitive in this medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that 
carried me back to earlier times, and pleased me. The place, 
indeed, was humble, but every thing had that look of order and 
neatness, which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable Eng- 
lish housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who 
might be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in 
one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher preten- 
sions, I was ushered into a little misshapen back-room, having at 
least nine corners. It was lighted by a sky-hght, furnished with 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 



155 



antiquated leathern chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a 
fat pig. It was evidently appropriated to particular customers, 
and I found a shabby gentleman, in a red nose and oil-cloth hat, 
seated in one corner, meditating on a half-empty pot of porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air 
of profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Ho- 
neyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad sub- 
stitute for that paragon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed 
delighted with an opportunity to oblige ; and hurrying up stairs 
txD the archives of her house, where the precious vessels of the 
parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, 
with them in her hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco-box, 
of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked 
at their stated meetings, since time immemorial ; and which was 
never suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or used on com- 
mon occasions. I received it with becoming reverence ; but what 
was my delight, at beholding on its cover the identical painting 
of which I was in quest ! There was displayed the outside of the 
Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was to be seen the 
whole convivial group, at table, in full revel ; pictured with that 
wonderful fidelity and force, with which the portraits of renowned 
generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the 
benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, 
the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal 
and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly oblit- 
erated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, 
for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, 
and that it was " repaired and beautified by his successor, IVIr, 



156 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of this au- 
gust and venerable relic ; and I question whether the learned 
Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the 
Round Table the long-sought san-greal, with more exultation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze. Dame 
Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest it excited, put 
in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which als'O belonged to the 
vestry, and was descended from the old Boar's Head. It bore 
the inscription of having been the gift of Francis "Wythers, 
knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being 
considered very " antyke." This last opinion was strengthened 
by the shabby gentleman in the red nose and oil-cloth hat, and 
whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant front, the 
valiant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from his meditation on the 
pot of porter, and, casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, 
" Ay, ay ! the head don't ache now that made that there article !" 

The gi'eat importance attached to this memento of ancient 
revelry by modern churchwardens at first puzzled me ; but there 
is nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as antiquarian re- 
search ; for I immediately perceived that this could be no other 
than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet " on which Falstaff made his 
loving, but faithless vow to Dame Quickly ; and which would, of 
course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of her do- 
mains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.* 



* Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin 
chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsun- 
week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing man 
at Windsor ; thou didst swear to me then, as I was gashing thy wound, to 
marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou ^eny it ? — Henry IV. 
Part 2. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 



157 



Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet 
had been handed down from generation to generation. She also 
entertained me with many particulars concerning the worthy ves- 
trymen who have seated themselves thua quietly on the stools of the 
ancient roysters of Eastcheap, and, Hke so many commentators, 
utter clouds of smoke in honor of Shakspeare. These I forbear 
to relate, lest my readers should not be as curious in these matters 
as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors, one and all, about 
Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived 
and reveled there. Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes 
concerning him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the 
Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted down from their 
forefathers ; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose shop 
stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokes 
of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, with which he makes 
his customers ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further 
inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His head 
had declined a little on one side ; a deep sigh heaved from the 
very bottom of his stomach ; and, though I could not see a tear 
trembHng in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a 
corner of his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye through 
the door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the 
savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the 
fire. 

I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my recondite 
investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My 
bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting in his hand a small 
token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed, with a hearty 
benediction on him. Dame Honeyball, and the Parish Club of 



158 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



Crooked Lane ; — not forgetting my shabby, but sententious friend, 
in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 

Thus have I given a " tedious brief" account of this inter- 
esting research, for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, 
I can only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so 
deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a more 
skillful illustrator of the immortalbard would- have swelled the 
materials I have touched upon, to a good merchantable bulk ; 
comprising the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, ^ 
and Robert Preston ; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of 
St. Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and little ; private 
anecdotes of Dame Honeyball, and her pretty daughter, whom I 
have not even mentioned ; to say nothing of a damsel tending the 
breast of lamb, (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a 
comely lass, with a neat foot and ankle ;) — the whole enlivened 
by the riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of 
London. 

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future com- 
mentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, and the 
" parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to light, the sub- 
jects of future engravings, and almost as fruitful of voluminous 
dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles, or the far- 
famed Portland vase. 




THE MUTAEILITY OF LITERATURE. 



A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
fn time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muse's heavenly lays. 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

Drummond of Hawthornden. 



There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which we 
naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet 
haunt, where we may indulge our reveries and build our air cas- 
tles undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitering about the old 
gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of 
wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with the name of 
reflection ; when suddenly an interruption of madcap boys from 
Westminster School, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the 
monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and 
mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I sought to take 
refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the soli- 
tudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for admission 
to the library. He conducted me through a portal rich with the 



160 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy- 
passage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber in which 
doomsday book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small 
door on the left. To this the verger applied a key ; it was double 
locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. We 
now ascended a dark narrow staircase, and, passing through a 
second door, entered the library. 

I found m} self in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by 
massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a 
row of gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, 
and which appai'ently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An 
ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his 
robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small 
gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They 
consisted principally of old polemical writers, and were much 
more worn by time than use. In the centre of the library was a 
solitary table with two or three books on it, an inkstand without 
ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place seemed 
fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It was buried 
deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from the 
tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts 
of the school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound 
of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along the roofs of 
the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter and 
fainter, and at length died away ; the bell ceased to toll, and a 
profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in 
parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in a 
venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, I was be- 
gidled by the solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 



161 



into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old volumes 
in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, and appa- 
rently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider 
the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like mum- 
mies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in 
dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust 
aside with such indifference, cost some aching head ! how many 
weary days ! how many sleepless nights ! How have their authors 
buried themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters ; shut 
themselves up from the face of man, and the still more blessed 
face of nature ; and devoted themselves to painful research and 
intense reflection ! And all for what ? to occupy an inch of dusty 
shelf — to have the title of their works read now and then in a 
future age, by some drowsy churchman or casual straggler like 
myself; and in another age to be lost, even to remembrance. 
Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere tempo- 
rary rumor, a local sound ; like the tone of that bell which has 
just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lin- 
gering transiently in echo — and then passing away like a thing 
that was not ! 

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these unprofita- 
ble speculations with my head resting on my hand, I was thrum- 
ming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally 
loosened the clasps ; when, to my utter astonishment, the little 
book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep ; 
then a husky hem ; and at length began to talk. At first its voice 
was very hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb 
which some studious spider had woven across it ; and having 
probably contracted a cold from long exposure to the chills and 



J 



162 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it became more 
distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent conversable 
little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather quaint and obso- 
lete, and its pronunciation, what, in the present day, would be 
deemed barbarous ; but I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to 
render it in modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of' the world — about 
merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such com- 
monplace topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that^ 
it had not been opened for more than two centuries. That the 
dean only looked now and then into the library, sometimes took 
down a volume or two, trifled with them for a few moments, and 
then returned them to their shelves. " What a plague do they 
mean," said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was 
somewhat choleric, "what a plague do they mean by keeping 
several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched by a 
set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, merely to 
be looked at now and then by the dean ? Books were written to 
give pleasure and to be enjoyed ; and I would have a rule passed 
that the dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a year ; 
or if he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn 
loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that at any rate 
we may now and then have an airing." 

" Softly, my Avorthy friend," replied I, " you are not aware 
how much better you are off than most books of your generation. 
By being stored away in this ancient library, you are like the 
treasured remains of those saints and monarchs, which lie en- 
shrined in the adjoining chapels ; while the remains of your con- 
temporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of nature, have 
long since returned to dust." 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 



163 



*' Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big, 
" 1 was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an 
abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other 
great contemporary works ; but here have I been clasped up for 
more than two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to 
these worms that are playing the very vengeance with my intes- 
tines, if you had not by chance given me an opportunity of utter- 
ing a fevf^ last words before I go to pieces." 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left to the cir- 
culation of which you speak, you would long ere this have been 
no more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are now well 
stricken in years : very few of your contemporaries can be at 
present in existence ; and those few owe their longevity to being 
immured like yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, 
instead of likening to harems, you might more properly and grate- 
fully have compared to those infirmaries attached to religious 
establishments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and where, 
by quiet fostering and no employment, they often endure to an 
amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of your contem- 
poraries as if in circulation — where do we meet with their works ? 
what do we hear of Robert Groteste, of Lincoln ? No one could 
have toiled harder than he for immortality. He is said to have 
written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a 
pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the pyramid 
has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered in 
various libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed even by the 
antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the his- 
torian, antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and poet ? He declined 
two bishoprics, that he might shut himself up and write for pos- 
terity ; but posterity never inquires after his labors. What of 



164 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



Henry of Huntingdon, who, besides a learned history of England, 
wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world, which the world 
has revenged by forgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph 
of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical composition ? 
Of his three great heroic poems one is lost for ever, excepting a 
mere fragment ; the others are known only to a few of the curious 
in literature ; and as to bis love verses and epigrams, they have 
entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John Wallis, 
the Franciscan, ^vho acquired the name of the tree of life ? Of 
William of Malmsbury ; — of Simeon of Durham ; — of Benedict 
of Peterborough ; — of John Hanvill of St. Albans ; — of " 

" Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, " how old 
do you think me ? You are talking of authors that lived long 
before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they 
in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to be forgot- 
ten ;* but I, sir, was ushered into the world from the press of 
the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own 
native tongue at a time when the language had become fixed ; 
and indeed I was considered a model of pure and elegant Eng- 
Hsh." 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched in such 
intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty in 
rendering them into modern phraseology.) 

" I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistaking your age ; but it 
matters little : almost all the writers of your time have likewise 

* In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to 
endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde. but certes there ben some that 
speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as good 
a fantasye as we have in hearying of Frenchmen's EngHshe. — Chaucer's Tes- 
tament of Love. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 



H)5 



passed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde's publications are mere 
literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability 
of language, too, on which you found your claims to perpe- 
tuity, have been the fallacious dependence of authors of every 
age, even back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, 
who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.* Even now 
many talk of Spenser's ' well of pure English undefiled,' as if the 
language ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, and was not 
rather a mere confluence of various tongues, perpetually subject 
to changes and intermixtures. It is this vrhich has made English 
literature so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon 
it so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to something 
more permanent and unchangeable than such a medium, even 
thought must share the fate of every thing else, and fall into 
decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity and 
exultation of the most popular writer. He finds the language 
in which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and sub- 
ject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He 
looks back and beholds the early authors of his country, once the 
favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A few 
short ages have covered them with obscurity, and their merits 
can only be relished by the quaint taste of the bookworm. And 



* Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " afterwards, also, by deligent 
travell of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of Richard the 
Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berne, 
our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never 
came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein 
John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent 
writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to their great praise 
and immortal commendation." 



166 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, which, 
however it may be admired in its day, and held up as a model of 
purity, will in the course of years grow antiquated and obsolete ; 
until it shall become almost as unintelligible in its native land as 
an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions said to 
exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with some 
emotion, " when I contemplate a modern library, filled with new 
works, in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, I feel 
disposed to sit down and weep ; like the good Xerxes,* when he 
.surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of military 
array, and reflected that in one hundred years not one of them 
would be in existence !" 

" Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, " I see how it 
is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old au- 
thors. I suppose nothing is read now-a-days but Sir Philip 
Sydney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays, and Mirror for Ma- 
gistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the ' unparalleled John 
Lyly.'" 

" There you are again mistaken," said I ; " the writers whom 
you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you 
were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip 
Sydney's Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly pre- 
dicted by his admirers,* and which, in truth, is full of noble 

* Live ever sweete booke ; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the 
golden pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto the vs^orld that thy 
writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey bee 
of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual 
virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the tonge of Suada in the chamber, 
the sprite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print. — Harvey 
Tierce's Supererogation. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 



16? 



thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now 
scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity ; 
and even Lyly, though his writings were once the delight of a 
court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely 
known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and 
wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down, with all their 
writings and their controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding 
literature has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, that 
it is only now and then that some industrious diver after frag- 
ments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification of 
the curious. 

" For my part," I continued, " I consider this mutability of 
language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the 
world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason from 
analogy, we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vege- 
tables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short 
time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their successors. 
Were not this the- case, the fecundity of nature would be a griev- 
ance instead of a blessing. The earth would groan with rank 
and excessive vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilder- 
ness. In like manner the works of genius and learning decline, 
and make way for subsequent productions. Language gradually 
varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors who have 
flourished their allotted time ; otherwise, the creative powers of 
genius would overstock the world, and the mind would be com- 
pletely bewildered in the endkss mazes of literature. Formerly 
there were some restraints on this excessive multiplication. 
Works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and labo- 
rious operation ; they were written either on parchment, which 
was expensive, so that one work was often erased to make way 



168 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



for another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely per- 
ishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, pur- 
sued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. 
The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and con- 
fined almost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances 
it may, in some measure, be owing that we have not been inun- 
dated by the intellect of antiquity ; that the foiTn tains of thought 
have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned in the 
deluge. But the inventions of paper and the press have put an ^ 
end to all these restraints. They have made every one a writer, 
and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself 
over the whole intellectual world. The consequences are alarm- 
ing. The stream of literature has swollen into a torrent — aug- 
mented into a river — expanded into a sea. A few centuries 
since, five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library ; 
but what would you say to libraries such as actually exist, con- 
taining three or four hundred thousand volumes ; legions of au- 
thors at the same time busy ; and the press going on with fearfully 
increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number ? Unless 
some unforeseen mortality should break out among the progeny 
of the muse, now that she has become so prolific, I tremble for 
posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be 
sufficient. Criticism ma}'' do much. It increases with the increase 
of literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on popu- 
lation spoken of by economists. All possible encouragement, 
therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, good or bad. 
But I fear all will be in vain ; let criticism do what it may, wri- 
ters will write, printers will print, and the world will inevitably 
be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the employment 
of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of passa- 



J 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 169 



ble information, at the present day, reads scarcely any thing but 
reviews ; and before long a man of erudition will be little better 
than a mere walking catalogue." 

"My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive 
you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author 
who was making some noise just as I left the world. His repu- 
tation, however, was considered quite temporary. The learned 
shook their heads at him, for he was a poor half-educated 
varlet, that knew little of Latin, and notliing of Greek, and 
had been obliged to run the country for deer-stealing. I 
think his name was Shakspeare. I presume he soon sunk into 
oblivion." 

" On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that very man that 
the literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the 
ordinary term of English literature. There rise authors now and 
then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because 
they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of hu- 
man nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see 
on the banks of a stream ; wliich, by their vast and deep roots, 
penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very 
foundations of the eaxth, preserve the soil around them from 
being swept away by the ever-flowing current, and hold up many 
a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. 
Such is the case with Shakspeare, whom we behold defying the 
encroachments of time, retaining in modern use the language and 
literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indifferent 
author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity. But even 
he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and Iiis 

8 



170 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



whole form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like 
clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant that 
upholds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, 
until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of laughter that had 
well nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpulency. 
" Mighty well !" cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, 
" mighty well ! and so you would persuade me that the literature 
of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a 
man without learning ; by a poet, forsooth — a poet !" And here 
he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, 
however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less 
polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my 
point. 

" Yes," resumed I, positively, " a poet ; for of all writers he 
has the best chance for immortality. Others may write from the 
head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always 
understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of nature, whose 
features are always the same, and always interesting. Prose 
writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; their pages are crowded 
with commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. 
But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. 
He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illus- 
trates them by every thing that he sees most striking in nature 
and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it 
is passing before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, 
the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. 
They are caskets which inclose within a small compass the wealth 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 



171 



of the language — its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in 
a portable form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be 
antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in the 
case of Chaucer ; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the 
gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach 
of literary history. What vast valleys of dullness, filled with 
monkish legends and academical controversies! what bogs of 
theological speculations ! what dreary wastes of metaphysics ! 
Here and there only do we behold the heaven-illumined bards, 
elevated like beacons on their widely-separate heights, to transmit 
the pure light of poetical intelligence from age to age."* 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets 
of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to 
turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that 
it was time to close the library. I sought to have a parting word 
with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent ; the clasps 
were closed : and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had 



* Thorow earth and waters deepe. 

The pen by skill doth passe : 
And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse. 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve ; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve. 
As are the golden leves 

That drop from poet's head ! 
Which doth surmount our common talke 

As farre as dross doth lead. 

Churchyard. 



172 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



I have been to the library two or three times since, and 
have endeavored to draw it into further conversation, but in vain ; 
and whether all this rambling colloquy actually took place, or 
whether it was another of those odd day-dreams to which I am 
subject, I have never to this moment been able to discover. 



RURAL FUNERALS. 



Here's a few flowers ! but about midnight more : 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night ; 

Are strewings fitt'st for graves 

You were as flowers now wither'd ; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. 

Cymbeline. 



Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life 
which still hnger in some parts of England, are those of strew- 
ing flowers before the funerals, and planting them at the graves 
of departed friends. These, it is said, are the remains of some 
of the rites of the primitive church ; but they are of still higher 
antiquity, having been observed among the Greeks and Romans, 
and frequently mentioned by their writers, and were, no doubt, 
the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection, originating long 
before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story 
it on the monument. They are now only to be met with in the 
most distant and retired places of the kingdom, where fashion and 
innovation have not been able to throng in, and trample out all 
the curious and interesting traces of the olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse 
lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild 
and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : 



174 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

White his shroud as the mountain snow, 

Larded all with sweet flowers ; 
Which be-v/ept to the grave did go, 

With true love showers. 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in 
some of tbe remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a 
female who has died young and unmarried. 'A chaplet of white 
flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl nearest in age, 
size, and resemblance, and is afterwards hung up in the church 
over the accustomed seat of the deceased. These chaplets are 
sometimes made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and 
inside of them is generally a pair of white gloves. They are 
intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the crown 
of glory which she has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the 
grave with the singing of psalms and hymns : a kind of triumph, 
" to show," says Bourne, " that they have finished their course 
with joy, and are become conquerors." This, I am informed, is 
observed in some of the northern counties, particularly in Nor- 
thumberland, and it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to 
hear, of a still evening, in some lonely country scene, the mourn- 
ful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see 
the train slowly moving along the landscape. 



Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The daffodil] 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

Herrick. 



RURAL FUNERALS. 



175 



There is also a solemn respect paid by. the traveler to the pass- 
ing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such spectacles, 
occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into the 
soul. As the mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncovered, 
to let it go by ; he then follows silently in the rear ; sometimes 
quite to the grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, and, 
having paid this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and 
resumes his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English 
character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling 
graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the 
solicitude shown by the common people for an honored and a 
peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his 
lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little respect may be 
paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the 
" faire and happy milkmaid," observes, " thus lives she, and all 
her care is, that she may die in the spring time, to have store of 
flowers stucke upon her windingsheet." The poets, too, who 
always breathe the feeling of a nation, continually advert to this 
fond solicitude about the grave. In " The Maid's Tragedy," by 
Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, 
describing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl : 

When she sees a bank. 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 



The custom of decorating graves was once universally preva- 
lent : osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf unin- 



176 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



jured, and about them were planted evergreens and flowers. 
" We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, " with flow- 
ers and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, which 
has been compared in Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties, 
whose roots being buried in dishonor, rise again in glory." This 
usage has now become extremely rare in England ; but it may 
still be met with in the church-yards of retired villages, among 
the "Welsh mountains ; and I recollect an instance of it at the 
small town of Ruthen, which lies at the head of the beautiful 
vale of Clewyd, I have been told also by a friend, who was 
present at the funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that the 
female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon 
as the body was interred, they stuck about the grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the 
same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the 
ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might be 
seen in various states of decay ; some drooping, others quite per- 
ished. They were afterwards to be supplanted by holly, rose- 
mary, and other evergreens ; which on some graves had grown 
to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tombstones. 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrange- 
ment of these rustic offerings, that had something in it truly po- 
etical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to form a 
general emblem of frail mortality. " This sweet flower," said 
Evelyn, " borne on a branch set with thorns, and accompanied 
with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, 
anxious, and transitory life, which, making so fair a show for a 
time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses." The nature and 
color of the flowers, and of the ribands with which they were 
tied, had often a particular reference to the qualities or story of 



RURAL FUNERALS. 177 



the deceased, or were expressive of the feelings of the mourner. 
In an old poem, entitled " Corydon's Doleful Knell," a lover spe- 
cifies the decorations he intends to use : 

A garland shall be framed 

By art and nature's skill. 
Of sundry-colored flowers, 

In token of good-will. 

And sundry-color'd ribands 

On it I will bestow ; 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 

I'll deck her tomb with flowers. 

The rarest ever seen ; 
And with my tears as showers, 

I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a 
virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribands, in token of her 
spotless innocence ; though sometimes black ribands were inter- 
mingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose 
was occasionally used in remembrance Of such as had been 
remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in general were appro- 
priated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom 
was not altogether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the 
county of Surrey, " where the maidens yearly planted and decked 
the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes." And 
Camden likewise remarks, in his Britannia : " Here is also a cer- 
tain custom, observed time out of mind, of planting rose-trees 
upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids who 

8* 



J 78 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



have lost their loves ; so that this church-yard is now full of 
them." 

Whien the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems 
of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and cy- 
press ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of the most melan- 
choly colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published 
in 1651), is the following stanza : 

Yet strew 
Upon my dismall grave n 

Such offerings as you have, 

Forsaken cpyresse and sad yewe ; 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 

In " The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is introduced, 
illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females who 
had been disappointed in love : 

Lay a garland on my hearse, 

Of the dismall yew. 
Maidens, willow branches wear, 

Say I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm, 

From my hour of birth, 
Upon my buried body He 

Lightly, gentle earth. 



The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and 
elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of 
sentiment and the unaffected elegance of thought which pervaded 



RURAL FUNERALS. 



179 



the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it was an especial 
precaution, that none but sweet-scented evergreens and flowers 
should be employed. The intention seems to have been to soften 
the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding over 
the disgraces of perishing mortality, and to associate the memory 
of the deceased with the most delicate and beautiful objects in 
nature. There is a dismal process going on in the grave, ere 
dust can return to its kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks 
from contemplating ; and we seek still to think of the form we 
have loved, with those refined associations which it awakened 
when blooming before us in youth and beauty. " Lay her i' the 
earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister, 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring ! 

Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fra- 
grant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner 
embalms the dead in the recollections of the living. 



Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise : 

May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

May all shie maids at wonted hours 

Ck)me forth to strew thy tombe with flowers! 

May virgins, when they come to mourn, 

Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar ! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 



180 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British 
poets, who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and 
delighted frequently to allude to them ; but I have already quoted 
more than is necessary. I cannot however refrain from giving a 
passage from Shakspeare, even though it should appear trite; 
which illustrates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in 
these floral tributes ; and at the same time possesses that magic of 
language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands pre- 
eminent. 

With fairest flowers, 
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, 
Outsweeten'd not thy breath. 



There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt 
and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the most costly 
monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower while the heart is 
warm, and the tear falls on the grave as affection is binding the 
osier round the sod ; but pathos expires under the slow labor of 
the chisel, and is chilled among the cold conceits of sculptured 
marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly elegant 
and touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only 
in the most remote and insignificant villages. But it seems as if 
poetical custom always shuns the walks of cultivated society. In 
proportion as people grow polite they cease to be poetical. They 
talk of poetry, but they have learnt to check its free impulses, to 



RURAL FUNERALS. 



181 



distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its most affecting and 
picturesque usages, by studied form and pompous ceremonial. 
Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than an English 
funeral in town. It is made up of show and gloomy parade; 
mourning carriages, mourning horses, mourning plumes, and 
hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief. " There is a 
grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor, " and a solemn mourning, 
and a great talk in the neighborhood, and when the daies are 
finished, they shall be, and they shall be remembered no more." 
The associate in the gay and crowded city is soon forgotten ; the 
hurrying succession of new intimates and new pleasures effaces 
him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he 
moved are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the country 
are solemnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider 
space in the village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil 
uniformity of rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every 
ear ; it steals with its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, 
and saddens all the landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country also per- 
petuate the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed 
them ; who was the companion of our most retired walks, and 
gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is associated 
with every charm of nature ; we hear his voice in the echo which 
he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts the grove which 
he once frequented ; we think of him in the wild upland solitude, 
or amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In the freshness of 
joyous morning, we remember his beaming smiles and bounding 
gayety ; and when sober evening returns with its gathering shad- 
ows and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour of 
gentle talk and sweet-souled melancholy. 



182 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Each lonely place shall him restore^ 
For him the tear be duly shed ; 

Beloved, till life can charm no more ; 
And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 



Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased 
in the countiy is that the grave is more immediately in sight of 
the survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer ; it meets 
their eyes when their hearts are softened by the exercises of 
devotion ; they linger about it on the Sabbath, when the mind is 
disengaged from worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside 
from present pleasures and present loves, and to sit down among 
the solemn mementos of the past. In North Wales the peasantry 
kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends for 
several Sundays after the interment ; and where the tender rite 
of strewing and planting flowers is still practised, it is always 
renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the 
season brings the companion of former festivity more vividly to 
mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest relatives 
and friends ; no menials nor hirelings are employed ; and if a 
neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer 
compensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as it 
is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. The 
grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine 
passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive im- 
pulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be continually 
refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its object ; but the 
love that is seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. 
The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline with the 



RURAL FUNERALS. 



183 



charms which excited them, and turn with shuddering disgust 
from the dismal precincts of the tomb ; but it is thence that truly 
spiritual affection rises, purified from every sensual desire, and 
returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of 
the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we 
refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — 
every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it a 
duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over in 
solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the 
infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every 
recollection is a pang ? Where is the child that would willingly 
forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to 
lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the 
friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is 
closing upon the remains of her he most loved ; when he feels 
his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal; would 
accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness ? — No, 
the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes 
of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and 
when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle 
tear of recollection ; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive 
agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened 
away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its 
loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? 
Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright 
hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of 
gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, 
or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a voice from the tomb 
sweeter than sons- There is a remembrance of the dead to which 



184 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh the grave ! — 
the grave ! — It buries every error — covers every defect — extin- 
guishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none 
but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down 
upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious 
throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of 
earth that lies mouldering before him ! 

But the grave of those we loved — what a place for medita- 
tion ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole his- 
tory of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments 
lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of inti- 
macy — there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, 
awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of death, with 
all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful 
assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! The feeble, 
fluttering, thrilling — oh ! how thrilling ! — pressure of the hand ! 
The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more 
assurance of affection ! The last fond look of the glazing eye, 
turning upon us even from the threshold of existence ! 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There 
settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unre- 
quited — every past endearment unregarded, of that departed 
being, who can never — never — never return to be soothed by thy 
contrition ! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, 
or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent — if 
thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that 
ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment 
of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou art a friend, and hast ever 
wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously 



RURAL FUNERALS. 185 



confided in thee — il' thou art a lover, and hast ever given one un- 
merited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still 
beneath thy feet ; — then be sure that every unkind look, every 
ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back 
upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul — then be 
sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, 
and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear ; more 
deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of 
nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, 
with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning 
by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and 
henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of 
thy duties to the living. 



In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to give a 
full detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but 
merely to furnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of particu- 
lar rites, to be appended, by way of note, to another paper, which 
has been withheld. The article swelled insensibly into its present 
form, and this is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual 
a notice of these usages, after they have been amply and learn- 
edly investigated in other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this custom 
of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other countries besides 
England. Indeed, in some it is" much more general, and is ob- 
served even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is then apt to 
lose its simplicity, and to degenerate into affectation. Bright, in 



186 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, 
and recesses formed for retirement, with seats placed among 
bowers of greenhouse plants ; and that the graves generally are 
covered with the gayest flowers of the season. He gives a casual 
picture of filial piety, which I cannot but describe ; for I trust it 
is as useful as it is delightful, to illustrate the amiable virtues of 
the sex. " When I was at Berlin," says he, •" 1 followed the 
celebrated Iffland to the grave. Mingled with some pomp, you 
might trace much real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my 
attention was attracted by a young woman, who stood on a mound 
of earth, newly covered with turf, which she anxiously protected 
from the feet of the passing crowd. It was the tomb of her 
parent ; and the figure of this affectionate daughter presented a 
monument more striking than the most costly work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I 
once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at 
the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the Lake 
of Lucern, at the foot of Mount Rigi. It was once the capital 
of a miniature republic, shut up between the Alps and the Lake, 
and accessible on the land side only by foot-paths. The whole 
force of the republic did not exceed six hundred fighting men ; 
and a few miles of circumference, scooped out as it were from the 
bosom of the mountains, comprised its territory. The village of 
Gersau seemed separated from the rest of the world, and retained 
the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a small church, 
with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of the graves 
were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some were affixed 
miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at likenesses 
of the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, 
some withering, others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused 



RURAL FUNERALS. 



187 



with interest at this scene ; I felt that I was at the source of 
poetical description, for these were the beautiful but unaffected 
offerings of the heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer 
and more populous place, I should have suspected them to have 
been suggested by factitious sentiment, derived from books ; but 
the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; there was not a 
novel nor a love poem in the village ; and I question whether any 
peasant of the place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chap- 
let for the grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling one of the 
most fanciful rites of poetical devotion, and that he was practically 
a poet 



THE INN KITCHEN. 



Shall I m)t take mine ease in mine inn ? 

Falstaff. 



During a journey that I once made through the Netherlands, I 
had arrived one evening at the Pomme d' Or^ the principal inn 
of a small Flemish village. It was after the hour of the table 
d'hote^ so that I was obliged to make a solitary supper from the 
relics of its ampler board. The weather was chilly ; I was seated 
alone in one end of a great gloomy dining-room, and, my repast 
being over, I had the prospect before me of a long dull evening, 
without any visible means of enlivening it. I summoned mine 
host, and requested something to read ; he brought me the whole 
literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac 
in the same language, and a number of old Paris newspapers. 
As I sat dozing over one of the latter, reading old news and stale 
criticisms, my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter 
which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every one that has 
traveled on the continent must know how favorite a resort the 
kitchen of a country inn is to the middle and inferior order of 
travelers ; particularly in that equivocal kind of weather, when a 
fire becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw aside the news- 
paper, and explored my way to the kitchen, to take a peep at the 



190 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



group that appeared to be so merry. It was composed partly of 
travelers who had arrived some hours before in a diligence, and 
partly of the usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. They 
were seated round a great burnished stove, that might have been 
mistaken for an altar, at which they were worshiping. It was 
covered with various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness ; 
among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A 
large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group, bringing 
out many odd features in strong relief. Its yellow rays partially 
illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote 
corners; except where they settled in mellow radiance on the 
broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back from well- 
scoured utensils, that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A 
strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her ears, 
and a necklace with a golden heart suspended to it, was the pre- 
siding priestess of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of 
them with some kind of evening potation. I found their mirth 
was occasioned by anecdotes, which a little swarthy Frenchman, 
with a dry weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of his 
love adventures ; at the end of each of which there was one of 
those bursts of honest unceremonious laughter, in which a man 
indulges in that temple of true liberty, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious bluster- 
ing evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened to a 
variety of travelers' tales, some very extravagant, and most very 
dull. All of them, however, have faded from my treacherous 
memory except one, which I will endeavor to relate. I fear, 
however, it derived its chief zest from the manner in which it 
was told, and the peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. 



THE INN KITCHEN. 



191 



He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran i 
traveler. He was dressed in a tarnished green traveling-jacket, 
with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of overalls, with 
buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was of a full rubicund 
countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant 
twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled from under an old 
green velvet traveling-cap stuck on one side of his head. He 
was interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or the 
remarks of his auditors ; and paused now and then to replenish 
his pipe ; at which times he had generally a roguish leer, and a 
sly joke for the buxom kitchen-maid. 

I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling in a 
huge arm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a curiously 
twisted tobacco pipe, formed of genuine ecume de mer, decorated 
with silver chain and silken tassel — his head cocked on one side, 
and a whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he related the 
following story. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 

A traveler's tale.* 

He that supper for is dight, 

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night ! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. 

Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Stebl. 

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and 
romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not far from the con- 
fluence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years 
since, the Castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite 
fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech trees and dark 
firs ; above which, however, its old watch-tower may still be seen 
struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a 
high head, and look down upon the neighboring country. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenel- 
lenbogen,t and inherited the relics of the property, and all the 



* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will perceive 
that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little 
French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris. 

t i. e., Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very powerfiil 
in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment to a 
peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine arm. 

9 



194 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his 
predecessors had much impaired the family possessions, yet the 
baron still endeavored to keep up some show of former state. 
The times were peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, 
had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' 
nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient resi- 
dences in the valleys : still the baron remained -proudly drawn up 
in his little fortress, cherishing, with hereditary inveteracy, all 
the old family feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some of his 
nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had happened 
between their great-great-grandfathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter ; but nature, when 
she grants but one child, always compensates by making it a 
prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of the baron. All the 
nurses, gossips, and country cousins, assured her father that she 
had not her equal for beauty in all Germany ; and who should 
know better than they ? She had, moreover, been brought up 
with great care under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, 
who had spent some years of their early life at one of the little 
German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of knowledge 
necessary to the education of a fine lady. Under their instruc- 
tions she became a miracle of accomplishments. By the time she 
was eighteen^ she could embroider to admiration, and had worked 
whole histories of the saints in tapestry, with such strength of ex- 
pression in their countenances, that they looked like so many souls 
in purgatory. She could read without great difficulty, and had 
spelled her way through several church legends, and almost all 
the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made 
considerable proficiency in writing; could sign her own name 
without missing a letter, and so legibly that her aunts could read 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 



195 



it without spectacles. She excelled in making little elegant good- 
for-nothing ladj-like nicknacks of all kinds ; was versed in the 
most abstruse dancing of the day ; played a number of airs on the 
harp and guitar ; and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnie- 
lieders by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their 
younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians 
and strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for there is no 
duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a super- 
annuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out of their sight ; 
never went beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended, 
or rather well watched ; had continual lectures read to her about 
strict decorum and implicit obedience ; and, as to the men — pah ! 
— she was taught to hold them at such a distance, and in such 
absolute distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she would not 
have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world — 
no, not if he were even dying at her feet. 

The good eifects of this system were wonderfully apparent. 
The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While 
others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and 
liable to be plucked and thrown aside by every hand ; she was 
coyly blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood under the 
protection of those immaculate spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing 
forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with 
pride and exultation, and vaunted that though all the other young 
ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing 
of the kind could happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Yon Landshort might be 
provided with children, his household was by no means a small 
one ; for Providence had enriched him with abundance of poor 



196 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



relations. They, one and all, possessed the affectionate disposition 
common to humble relatives ; were wonderfully attached to the 
baron, and took every possible occasion to come in swarms and 
enliven the castle. All family festivals were commemorated by 
these good people at the baron's expense ; and when they were 
filled with good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing 
on earth so delightful as these family meetings, these jubilees of 
the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it 
swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest 
man in the little world about him. He loved to tell long stories 
about the stark old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down 
from the walls around, and he found no listeners equal to those 
who fed at his expense. He was much given to the marvelous, 
and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales with which 
every mountain and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of 
his guests exceeded even his own : they listened to every tale of 
wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be aston- 
ished, even though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived 
the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute 
monarch of his little territory, and happy, above all things, in the 
persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats, there was a great family 
gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance : it 
was to receive the destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. 
A negotiation had been carried on between the father and an old 
nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the 
marriage of their children. The preliminaries had been con- 
ducted with proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed 
without seeing each other ; and the time was appointed for the 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 



197 



marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been 
recalled from the army for the purpose, and was actually on his 
way to the baron's to receive his bride. Missives had even been 
received from him, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally 
detained, mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected 
to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suita- 
ble welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncom- 
mon care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet, and quar- 
reled the whole morning about every article of her dress. The 
young lady had taken advantage of their contest to follow the 
bent of her own taste ; and fortunately it was a good one. She 
looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire ; and the 
flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle 
heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all 
betrayed the soft tumult that was going on in her little heart. 
The aunts were continually hovering around her; for maiden 
aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of this nature. They 
were giving her a world of staid counsel how to deport herself, 
what to say^ and in what manner to receive the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in 
truth, nothing exactly to do : but he was naturally a fuming 
bustling Httle man, and could not remain passive when all the 
world was in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of the 
castle with an air of infinite anxiety ; he continually called the 
servants from their work to exhort them to be diligent; and 
buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and impor- 
tunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed ; the forests 



198 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen ; the kitchen was 
crowded with good cheer ; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans 
of Rhein^wein and Ferne-wein ; and even the great Heidelburg 
tun had been laid under contribution. Every thing was ready to 
receive the distinguished guest with Saus und Braus in the true 
spirit of German hospitality — but the guest delayed to make his 
appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that had poured 
his downward rays upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, now 
just gleamed along the summits of the mountains. The baron 
mounted the highest tower, and strained his eyes in hopes of 
catching a distant sight of the count and his attendants. Once 
he thought he beheld them ; the sound of horns came floating 
from the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A number 
of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing along the 
road ; but when they had nearly reached the foot of the moun- 
tain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction. The last 
ray of sunshine departed — the bats began to flit by in the twilight 
— the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view ; and nothing 
appeared stirring in it, but now and then a peasant lagging 
homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of per- 
plexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a different part 
of the Odenwald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his 
route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a man travels toward 
matrimony when his friends have taken all the trouble and uncer- 
tainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for him, 
as certainly as a dinner at the end of his journey. He had encoun- 
tered, at Wurtzburg, a youthful companion in arms, with whom 
he had seen some service on the frontiers ; Herman Von Starken- 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 199 



faust, one of the stoutest hands, and worthiest hearts, of German 
chivalry, who was now returning from the army. His father's 
castle was not far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, 
although an hereditary feud rendered the families hostile, and 
strangers to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young friends 
related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave 
the whole history of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom 
he had never seen, but of whose charms he had received the most 
enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they 
agreed to perform the rest of their journey together ; and, that they 
might do it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early 
hour, the count having given directions for his retinue to follow 
and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their 
military scenes and adventures ; but the count was apt to be a 
little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, 
and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of the 
Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly 
wooded passes. It is well known that the forests of Germany 
have always been as much infested by robbers as its castles by 
spectres ; and, at this time, the former were particularly nume- 
rous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering about the 
country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the 
cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst 
of the forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were 
nearly overpowered, when the count's retinue arrived to their 
assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the 



200 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



count had received a mortal wound. He was slowly and care- 
fully conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned 
from a neighboring convent, who was famous for his skill in 
administering to both soul and body ; but half of his skill was 
superfluous ; the moments of the unfortunate count were num- 
bered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his. friend to repair 
instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause 
of his not keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not 
the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of 
men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that his mission should be 
speedily and courteously executed. " Unless this is done," said 
he, " I shall not sleep quietly in my grave !" He repeated these 
last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so 
impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to 
soothe him to calmness ; promised faithfully to execute his wish, 
and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed 
it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium — raved about 
his bride — his engagements — his plighted word; ordered his 
horse, that he might ride to the castle of Landshort ; and expired 
in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the 
untimely fate of his comrade ; and then pondered on the awkward 
mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy,* and his head 
perplexed; for he was to present himself an unbidden guest 
among hostile people, and to damp their festivity with tidings fatal 
to their hopes. Still there were certain whisperings of curiosity 
in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of E^atzenellenbogen, 
so cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was a passionate 
admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 201 



enterprise in his character that made him fond of all singular 
adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with 
the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of 
his friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, 
near some of his illustrious relatives ; and the mourning retinue 
of the count took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient 
family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, 
and still more for their dinner ; and to the worthy little baron, 
whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron de- 
scended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had 
been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. 
The meats were already overdone ; the cook in an agony j and 
the whole household had the look of a garrison that had been 
reduced by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to give 
orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were 
seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the 
sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach 
of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts of the 
castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder from the 
walls. The baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was 
before the gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on a 
black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, 
romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The baron was 
a little mortified that he should have come in this simple, solitary 
style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed 
to consider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion, 

9* 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



and the important family with which he was to be connected. 
He pacified himself, however, with the conclusion, that it must 
have been youthful impatience which had induced him thus to 
spur on sooner than his attendants. 

" I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you thus 
unseasonably " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compliments 
and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his 
courtesy and eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or twice^ 
to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so he bowed his head 
and suffered it to flow on. By the time the baron had come to a 
pause, they had reached the inner court of the castle ; and the 
stranger was again about to speak, when he was once more inter- 
rupted by the appearance of the female part of the family, leading 
forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for 
a moment as one entranced; it seemed as if his whole soul 
beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. One 
of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear ; she made 
an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly raised ; gave 
a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger ; and was cast again to 
the ground. The words died away ; but there was a sweet smile 
playing about her lips, and a soft dimpHng of the cheek that 
showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossi- 
ble for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for 
love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for 
parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular 
conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted 
banquet. ^ 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 



203 



walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house 
of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in 
the field and in the chase. Hacked corslets, splintered jousting 
spears, and tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of 
sylvan warfare ; the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, 
grinned horribly among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge 
pair of antlers branched immediately over the head of the 
youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the 
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed 
absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low tone 
that could not be overheard — for the language of love is never 
loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the 
softest whisper of the lover ? There was a mingled tenderness 
and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have a powerful 
effect upon the young lady. Her color came and went as she 
listened with deep attention. Now and then she made some 
blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away, she would 
steal a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a 
gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the young 
couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who were deeply 
versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen 
in love with each other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests 
were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light 
purses and mountain air. The baron told his best and longest 
stories, and never had he told them so well, or Avith such great 
effect. If there was any thing marvelous, his auditors were lost 
in astonishment ; and if any thing facetious, they were sure to 
laugh exactly in the right place. The baron, it is true, like most 



204 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



great men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one ; it 
was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent Hock- 
lieimer ; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served up with 
jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said by 
poorer and keener wits, that would not bear repeating, except on 
similar occasions ; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, 
that almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter ; and a song 
or two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-faced cousin of 
the baron, that absolutely made the maiden aunts hold up their 



Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most 
singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a 
deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced ; and, strange 
as it may appear, even the baron's jokes seemed only to render 
him the more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and 
at times there was a perturbed and restless wandering of the eye 
that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the 
bride became more and more earnest and mysterious. Lowering 
clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tre- 
mors to run through her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their 
gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bride- 
groom ; their spirits were infected ; whispers and glances were 
interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the 
head. The song and the laugh grew less and less frequent; 
there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which were at 
length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One 
dismal story produced another still more dismal, and the baron 
nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the his- 
tory of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora ; 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 205 



a dreadful story, which has since been put into excellent verse, 
and is read and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. 
He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story 
drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing 
taller and taller, until, in the baron's entranced eye, he seemed 
almost to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, 
he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the com- 
pany. They were all amazement. The baroD was perfectly 
thunder-struck. 

" What ! going to leave the castle at midnight ? why, every 
thing was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was ready for 
him if he wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously ; 
" I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night !" 

There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it 
was uttered, that made the baron's heart misgive him ; but he 
rallied his forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every 
offer ; and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly 
out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified — 
the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye. 

The baron followed^he stranger to the great court of the cas- 
tle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and snorting 
with impatience. — When they had reached the portal, whose deep 
ai'chway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and 
addressed the baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted 
roof rendered still more sepulchral. 

" Now that we are alone," said he, " I will impart to you the 



206 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



reason of mj going. I have a solemn, an indispensable engage- 
ment — " 

"Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one in your 
place?" 

" It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person — I 
must away to Wurtzburg cathedral — " 

" Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, " but not until to- 
morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 

" No ! no !" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, " my 
engagement is with no bride — the worms ! the worms expect me ! 
I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers — my body lies at 
Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be buried — the grave is waiting 
for me — I must keep my appointment !" 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, 
and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling of 
the night blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, 
and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, others 
sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It was 
the opinion of some, that this might be the wild huntsman, famous 
in German legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood- 
demons, and of other supernatural beings, with which the good 
people of Germany have been so grievously harassed since time 
immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that 
it might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that 
the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so mel- 
ancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him the indigna- 
tion of the whole company, and especially of the baron, who looked 
upon him as little better than an infidel ; so that he was fain to 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM, 207 



abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the faith 
of the true believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they 
were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regu- 
lar missives, confirming the intelligence of the young count's mur- 
der, and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron 
shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had come to 
rejoice with him, could not think of abandoning him in his dis- 
tress. They wandered about the courts, or collected in groups in | 
the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders, at the j 
troubles of so good a man ; and sat longer than ever at table, 
and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up 
their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride was the 
most pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had even em- 
braced him — and such a husband ! if the very spectre could be i 
so gracious and noble, what must have been the living man ? She | 
filled the house with lamentations. j 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood she had | 
retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who 
insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best j 
tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just been recounting i 
one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. 
The chamber was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The | 
niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as j 
they trembled on the leaves of an aspen-tree before the lattice. \ 
The castle clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft strain of 
music stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed, 
and stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among 
the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moon- 



208 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



light fell upon the countenance. Heaven and earth ! she heheld 
the Spectre Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at that moment burst 
upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the mu- 
sic, and had followed her silently to the window, fell into her 
arms. When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, 
for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young 
lady, there Avas something, even in the spectre of her lover, that 
seemed endearing. There was still the semblance of manly 
beauty ; and though the shadow of a man is but little calculated 
to satisfy the affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance 
is not to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared she 
would never sleep in that chamber again ; the niece, for once, was 
refractory, and declared as strongly that she would sleep in no 
other in the castle : the consequence was, that she had to sleep in 
it alone : but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the 
story of the spectre, lest she should be denied the only melan- 
choly pleasure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber 
over which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly 
vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed this promise 
is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvelous, and there 
is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story ; it is, how- 
ever, still quoted in the neighborhood, as a memorable instance of 
female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week ; when 
she was suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by intelli- 
gence brought to the breakfast table one morning that the young 
lady was not to be found. Her room was empty — the bed had not 
been slept in — the window was open, and the bird had flown ! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelh'gence 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 



was received, can only be imagined by those who have witnessed 
the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his 
friends. Even the poor relations paused for a moment from the 
indefatigable labors of the trencher ; when the aunt, who had at 
first been struck speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, 
" The goblin ! the goblin ! she's carried away by the goblin !" 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, 
and concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. 
Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard 
the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about mid- 
night, and had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black 
charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck 
with the direful probability ; for events of the kind are extremely 
common in Germany, as many well authenticated histories bear 
witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron ! 
What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member 
of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughter 
had either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have some 
wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of goblin 
grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all 
the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse, 
and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The 
baron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his 
sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the 
doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new appari- 
tion. A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a pal- 
frey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to 
the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the baron's feet, 
embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her companion 



210 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



— the Spectre Bridegroom ! The baron was astounded. He 
looked at his daughter, then at the spectre, and almost doubted 
the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully im- 
proved in his appearance since his visit to the world of spirits. 
His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly sym- 
metry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine coun- 
tenance was flushed with the glow of youth, a«id joy rioted in his 
large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in 
truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) 
announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related 
his adventure with the young count. He told how he had has- 
tened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the 
eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in every attempt to 
tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had completely capti- 
vated him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly 
suffered the mistake to continue. How he had been sorely per- 
plexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron's gob- 
lin stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the 
feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth 
— had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's window — had 
wooed — had won — had borne away in triumph — and, in a word, 
had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would have been 
inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly 
obstinate in all family feuds ; but he loved his daughter ; he had 
lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to find her still alive; and, 
though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, 
he was not a goblin. There was something, it must be acknow- 
ledged, that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict vera- 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 



211 



city, in the joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a 
dead man ; but several old friends present, who had served in the 
wars, assured him that every stratagem was excusable in love, 
and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege, having 
lately served as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron par- 
doned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle 
were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new mem- 
ber of the family with loving kindness ; he was so gallant, so 
generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewhat 
scandalized that their system of strict seclusion, and passive obe- 
dience should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it all to their 
negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them was 
particularly mortified at having her marvelous story marred, and 
that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a counter- 
feit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him 
substantial flesh and blood — and so the story ends. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



When I behold, with deep astonishment. 
To famous Westminster how there resorte 
Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte ; 
Doe not I see reformde nobUitie, 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
And looke upon ofFenselesse majesty, 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination 1 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon 
Could not content nor quench their appetites. 

Life is a frost of cold felicitie. 

And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Christolkro's Epigrams, by T. B. 1598. 



On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter 
part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening 
almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of 
the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster 
Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the 
mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and, as I passed its 
threshold, seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, 
and losing myself among the shades of former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, through 
a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look. 



214 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the 
massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view 
of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black 
gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a 
spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the 
abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind 
for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something 
of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are 
discolored by damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary- 
moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, 
and obscured the death's heads, and other funereal emblems. 
The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of 
the arches; the roses which adorned the key-stones have lost 
their leafy beauty ; every thing bears marks of the gradual dilapi- 
dations of time, w^hich yet has something touching and pleasing 
in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the 
square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in 
the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with 
a kind of dusky splendor. From between the arcades, the eye 
glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud; and be- 
held the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure 
heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled 
picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to decipher 
the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pavement 
beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, rudely 
carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many 
generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots ; 
the epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the names alone remained. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 215 



having no doubt been renewed in later times. (Vitalis. Abbas. 
1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. 
Abbas. 1176. I remained some little while, musing over these 
casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant 
shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been and 
had perished ; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride 
which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an 
inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records will be 
obliterated, and the monument will cease to be a memorial. 
Whilst I was yet looking down upon these gravestones, I was 
roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from but- 
tress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost 
startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among 
the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, 
has rolled us onward towards the grave. I pursued my walk to 
an arched door opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering 
here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, 
contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with 
wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches 
springing from them to such an amazing height ; and man wan- 
dering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison 
with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this 
vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step 
cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hal- 
lowed silence of the tomb ; while every footfall whispers along 
the walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more 
sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down 
upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. 
We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the 



216 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, 
and the earth with their renown. 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human 
ambition, to see how they are crowded together and jostled in the 
dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a 
gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those, whom, when 
alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; and how .many shapes, and 
forms, and artifices, are devised to catch the casual notice of the 
passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for a few short years, a 
name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought 
and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end 
of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monu- 
ments are generally simple ; for the lives of literary men afford 
no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison 
have statues erected to their memories ; but the greater part have 
busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwith- 
standing the simplicity of these memorials, I have always ob- 
served that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about them. 
A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or 
vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monu- 
ments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as 
about the tombs of friends and companions ; for indeed there is 
something of companionship between the author and the reader. 
Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of 
history, which is continually growing faint and obscure : but the 
intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever new, 
active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than. for 
himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut him- 
self up from the delights of social life, that he might the more 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 217 



intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well 
may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been purchased, not 
by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensation 
of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his memory ; for 
he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and sounding 
actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, 
and golden veins of language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that part 
of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I Avan- 
dered among what once were chapels, but which are now occu- 
pied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn 
I met with some illustrious name ; or the cognizance of some 
powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these 
dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies ; 
some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched upon 
the tombs, with hands piously pressed together : warriors in ar- 
mor, as if reposing after battle ; prelates with crosiers and mitres ; 
and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it were in state. In 
glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every 
form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading 
a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been sud- 
denly transmuted into stone. 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a 
knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm 
the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast: 
the face was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were crossed, 
in token of the warrior's havijig been engaged in the holy war. 
It was the tomb of a crusader ; of one of those military enthusi- 
asts, who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose 
exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction ; be- 

10 



218 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



tween the history and the fairy tale. There is something ex- 
tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, decorated 
as they are with rude armorial bearings and gothic sculpture. 
They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are gen- 
erally found ; and in considering them, the imagination is apt to 
kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the 
chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the 
wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the relics of times 
utterly gone by ; of beings passed from recollection ; of customs 
and manners with which ours have no affinity. They are like 
objects from some strange and distant land, of which we have no 
certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions are vague 
and visionary. There is something extremely solemn and a-wful 
in those effigies on gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of 
death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. They have an 
effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanciful 
attitudes, the over-wrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which 
abound on modern monuments. I have been struck, also, with 
the superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There 
was a noble way, in former times, of saying things simply, and 
yet saying them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph that 
breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honorable 
lineage, than one which affirms, of a noble house, that " all the 
brothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument 
which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art ; 
but which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the 
tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the 
monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and 
a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



219 



his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is 
sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain 
and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with 
terrible truth and spirit ; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering 
yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the spectre. — 
But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary 
terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love ? 
The grave should be surrounded by every thing that might inspire 
tenderness and veneration for the dead ; or that might win the 
living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but 
of sorrow and meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, 
studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence 
from without occasionally reaches the ear ; — the rumbling of the 
passing equipage ; the murmur of the multitude ; or perhaps the 
light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the death- 
like repose around : and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, 
thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating 
against the very walls of the sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from 
chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away ; the 
distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less fre- 
quent ; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening pray- 
ers ; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, 
crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the en- 
trance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead up 
to it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great 
gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon 
their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common 
mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. 



220 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



On enten'ng, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture, 
and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls 
are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, and 
scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and mar- 
tyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have 
been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by 
magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the -wonderful minute- 
ness and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights 
of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque deco- 
rations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are 
affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and 
swords ; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned 
with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and 
purple and crimson, with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the 
midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder, 
— his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, 
and the whole surrounded by a superbly-wrought brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange 
mixture of tombs and trophies ; these emblems of living and 
aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and 
oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing 
impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to 
tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. 
On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their 
esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that 
■were once borne before them, my imagination conjured up the 
scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the 
land ; glittering with the splendor of jeweled rank and military 
array ; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 221 



admiring multitude. All had passed away ; the silence of death 
had settled again upon the place, inteiTupted only by the casual 
chirping of birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and 
built their nests among its friezes and pendants — sure signs of 
solitariness and desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were 
those of men scattered far and wide about the world ; some toss- 
ing upon distant seas ; some under arms in distant lands ; some 
mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets ; all seeking 
to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy 
honors : the melancholy reward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touch- 
ing instance of the equality of the grave ; which brings down the 
oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of 
the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre of the 
haughty Elizabeth ; in the others is that of her victim, the lovely 
and unfortunate Mary. jSTot an hour in the day but some ejacu- 
lation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with 
indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre 
continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave 
of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies 
buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by 
dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the 
walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble 
figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron 
railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem — the thistle. 
I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the 
monument, revolving in ray mind the chequered and disastrous 
story of poor Mary. 



•222 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I 
could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest 
repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; 
these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the 
desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, 
gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : 



For in the silent grave no conversation. 
No joyfial tread of friends, no voice of lovers. 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard. 
For nothing is, but all oblivion. 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 



Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the 
ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as 
it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and 
grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With what pomp do 
they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful har- 
mony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre 
vocal ! — And now they rise in triumphant acclamation, heaving 
higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on 
sound. — And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir 
break out into sweet gushes of melody ; they soar aloft, and war- 
ble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like 
the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its 
thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth 
upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweep- 
ing concords ! It grows more and more dense and powerful — it 
fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is 
stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 223 



in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very- 
soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling tide of 
harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain 
of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening 
were gradually thickening round me ; the monuments began to 
cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave 
token of the slowly waning day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the 
flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye 
was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended 
the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a gene- 
ral survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated 
upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of 
various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye looks 
down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and 
chambers below, crowded with tombs ; where warriors, prelates, 
courtiers, and statesmen, lie mouldering in their " beds of dark- 
ness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely 
carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and gothic age. 
The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, 
to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the 
beginning and the end of human pomp and power ; here it was 
literally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not 
one think that these incong-ruous mementos had been gathered to- 
gether as a lesson to living greatness ? — to show it, even in the 
moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to 
which it must soon arrive ; how soon that crown which encircles 
its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the dust and 
disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the 



224 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



meanest of tlie multitude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is 
here no longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some 
natures, which leads them to sport with awful and hallowed things ; 
and there are base minds, which delight to revenge on the illus- 
trious dead the abject homage and groveling servility which they 
pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been 
broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funereal orna- 
ments ; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the imperious 
Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Nots 
a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive is 
the homage of mankind. Some are plundered ; some mutilated ; 
some covered with ribaldry and insult — all more or less outraged 
and dishonored ! 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through 
the painted windows in the high vaults above me ; the lower parts 
of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. 
The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of 
the kings faded into shadows ; the marble figures of the monu- 
ments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; the 
evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of 
the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing 
the Poet's Corner, had something strange, and dreary in its sound. 
I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the 
portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise 
behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the 
objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already 
fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, 
trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though I 
had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



225 



I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humilia- 
tion ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of 
renown, and the certainty of oblivion ! It is, indeed, the empire 
of death ; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, 
mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and 
forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, 
after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever silently 
turning over his pages ; we are too much engrossed by the story 
of the present, to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave 
interest to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be 
speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yes- 
terday out of our recollection ; and will, in turn, be supplanted 
by his successor of to-morrow. " Our fathers," says Sir Thomas 
Brown, " find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell 
us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into 
fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the 
inscription moulders from the tablet; the statue falls from the 
pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps 
of sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust? 
What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalm- 
ment ? The remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered 
to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere cariosity 
of a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, which Carabyses or 
time hath spared, avarice now consflmeth ; Mlzraim cures wounds, 
and Pharaoh is sold for balsams."* 

What then is to insure this pile which now towers above me 
from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time must 
come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall 



» Sir T. Brown. 
10* 



.26 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



lie in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of 
melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken 
arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the 
garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, 
and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove 
hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the 
dead Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from record 
and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, and his ^ery 
monument becomes a ruin. 




WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



221 



NOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under the dominion 
of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry, Pope Gregory the 
Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo-Saxon youths exposed for sale in 
the market-place at Rome, conceived a fancy for the race, and determined to 
send missionaries to preach the gospel among these comely but benighted 
islandei-s. lie was encouraged to this by learning that Ethelbert, king of 
Kent, and the most potent of the Anglo-Saxon princes, had married Bertha, a 
Christian princess, only daughter of the king of Paris, and that she was allowed 
by stipulation the full exercise of her religion. 

The shrewd pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of religious 
faith. He forthwith dispatched Augustine, a Roman monk, with forty associ- 
ates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to effect the conversion of the king 
and to obtain through him a foothold in the island. 

Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference in the open air; 
being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of spells and magic. They 
ultimately succeeded in making him as good a Christian as his wife ; the 
conversion of the king of course produced the conversion of his loyal subjects. 
The zeal and success of Augustine were rewarded by his being made arch- 
bishop of Canterbury, and being endowed with authority over all the British 
churches. 

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert or Sebert, king of the 
East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at London, of which Meltitus, 
one of the Roman monks who had come over with Augustine was made bishop. 

Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the river side 
to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of Apollo, being, in fact, the 
origin of the present pile of Westminster Abbey. Great preparations were 
made for the consecration of the church, which was to be dedicated to St. 
Peter. On the morning of the appointed day, Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded 
with great pomp and solemnity to perform the ceremony. On approaching the 
edifice he was met by a fisherman, who informed him that it was needless to 
proceed, as the ceremony was over. The bishop stared with surprise, when 
the fisherman went on to relate, that the night befoie, as he was in his boat on 



228 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the Thames, St. Peter appeared to him, and told him that he intended lo 
consecrate the church himself, that very night. The apostle accordingly went 
into the church, which suddenly became illuminated. The ceremony was 
performed in sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of heavenly music and 
clouds of fragrant incense. After this, the apostle came into the boat and 
ordered the fisherman to cast his net. He, did so, and had a miraculous 
draught of fishes ; one of which he was commanded to present to the bishop, 
and to signify to him that the aposile had relieved him from the necessity of 
consecrating the church. 

Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirmation of the 
fi.sherman's tale. He opened the church doors, and beheld wax candles, 
crosses, holy water ; oil sprinkled in various places, and various other traces 
of a grand ceremonial. If he had still any lingering doubts, they were com- 
pletely removed on the fisherman's producing the identical fish which he had 
been ordered by the apostle to present to him. To resist this would have been 
to resist ocular demonstration. The good bishop accordingly was convinced 
that the church had actually been consecrated by St. Peter in person ; so he 
reverently abstained f^om proceeding further in the business. 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason v/hy King Edward the Con- 
fessor chose this place as the site of a religious house which he meant to endow. 
He pulled down the old church and built another in its place in 1045. In this 
his remains were deposited in a magnificent shrine. 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a reconstruction, 
by Henry III, in 1220, and began to assume its present appearance. 

Under Henry VIII it lost its conventual character, that monarch turning 
the monks away, and seizing upon the revenues. 



RELICS OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR. 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the choristers of the ca- 
thedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the sacred edifice, giving an 
account of his rummaging among the bones of Edward the Confessor, after they 
had quietly reposed in their sepulchre upwards of six hundred years, and of his 
drawing forth the crucifix and golden chain of the deceased monarch. During 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 229- 



eighteen years that he had officiated in the chcir, it had been a common tradi- 
tion, he says, among his brother choristers and the gray-headed servants of the 
abbey, that the body of King Edward was deposited in a kind of chest or coffin, 
which was indistinctly seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to his 
memory. None of the abbey gossips, however, had ventured upon a nearer 
inspection, until the worthy narrator, to gratify his curiosity, mounted to the 
coffin by the aid of a ladder, and found it to be made of wood, apparently, very 
strong and firm, being secured by bands of iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used in the corona- 
tion of James II, the coffin was found to be broken, a hole appearing in the lid, 
probably made, through accident, by the workmen. No one ventured, how- 
ever, to meddle with the sacred depository of royal dust, until, several weeks 
afterwards, the circumstance came to the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. 
He forthwith repaired to the abbey in company with two friends, of congenial I 
tastes, who were desirous of inspecting the tombs. Procuring a ladder, he I 
again mounted to the coffin, and found, as had been represented, a hole in the 
lid about six inches long and four inches broad, just in front of the left breast. 
Thrusting in his hand, and groping among the bones, he drew fi'om underneath 
the shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned and enameled, affixed to a gold chain 
twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his inquisitive friends, who were 
equally surprised with himself. 

" At the time," says he, " when I took the cross and chain out of the coffin, 
/ drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very sound and firm, with the 
upper and nether jaws whole and full of teeth, and a list of gold above an inch 
broad, in the nature of a coronet, surrounding the temples. There was also in 
the coffin, white linen and gold-colored flowered silk, that looked indifferent 
fresh ; but the least stress put thereto showed it was well nigh perished. There 
were all his bones, and much dust likewise, which I left as I found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride than the 
skull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled about in its coffin by a 
prying chorister, and brought to grin face to face with him through a hole in 
the lid ! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and chain back 
ngam into the coffin, and sought the dean, to apprise him of his discover}'. 



230 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



The dean not beinsc accessible at the time, and fearing that the " holy treasure" 
might be taken away by other hands, he got a brother chorister lo accompany 
him to the shrine about two or three hours afterwards, and in his presence 
again drew forth the relics. These he afterwards delivered on his knees to 
King James. The king subsequently had the old coffin inclosed in a new one 
of great strength: " each plank being two inches thick and cramped together 
with large iron wedges, where it now remains (1688) as a testimony of his 
pious care, that no abuse might be offered to the sacred ashes therein reposited." 
As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a description of it in 
modern times. " The solitary and forlorn shrine," says a British writer, " now 
stands a mere skeleton of what it was. A few faint traces of its sparkling 
decorations inlaid on solid mortar catches the rays of the sun, for ever set on 
its splendor * * * * Only two of the spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic 
top is much broken, and covered with dust. The mosaic is picked away in 
every part within reach ; only the lozenges of about a foot square and five 
circular pieces of the rich marble remain." — Malcolm, Lond. redi'v. 



INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IN THE 
SKETCH. 

Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Dutchess his second wife, 
by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister 
to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble family ; for all the brothers were val- 
iant, and all the sisters virtuous. This Dutchess was a wise, witty, and learned 
lady, which her many Bookes do well testify : she was a most virtuous, and 
loving and careful wife, and was with her lord all the time of his banishment 
and miseries, and when he came home, never parted from him in his solitary 
retirements. 



In the winter time, when the days are short, the service in the afternoon is 
performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine of the choir partially lighted 
up, while the main body of the cathedral and the transepts are in profound and 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 231- 



cavemous darkness. The white dresses of the choristers gleam amidst the 
deep brown of the oaken slats and canopies ; the partial illumination makes 
enormous shadows from columns and screens, and darting into the surrounding 
gloom, catches here and there upon a sepulchral decoration, or monumental 
effigy. The swelling notes of the organ accord well with the scene. 

When the service is over the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in the old 
conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir, in their white dresses, 
bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the abbey and along the 
shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches and grim sepulchral monu- 
ments, and leaving all behind in darkness. 



On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's Yard, 
the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a distant view of a 
white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which a strong glare thrown by a 
gas light has quite a spectral effect. It is a mural monument of one of the 
Pultneys. 

The cloisters are well worth visiting by moonlight, when the nioou is in 
'he full. 



CHRISTMAS. 



But is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair of his good, gray, old head 
and beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him. 

Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold. 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true, 
The poor from the gates were not chidden. 

When this old cap was new. 

Old Song. 



Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell over my 
imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural 
games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used 
to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the 
world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had 
painted it ; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest 
days of yore, in which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to 
think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous than at 
present. I regret to say that they are daily growing more and 
more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more 
obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque 
morsels of gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various 



234 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



parts of th-e country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and 
partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, 
however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game 
and holiday revel, from which it has derived so many of its 
themes — as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the gothic arch 
and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasp- 
ing together their tottering remains, and, as it- were, embalming 
them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens 
the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of 
solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and 
lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. 
The services of the church about this season are extremely tender 
and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin 
of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announce- 
ment. Th^y gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the 
season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the 
morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know 
a grander effect of music on the moral feelings, than to hear the 
full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem 
in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with trium- 
phant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, 
that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the 
religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gather- 
ing together of family connections, and drawing closer again those 
bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sor- 
rows of the world are continually operating to cast loose ; of call- 
ing back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, 
and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the 



CHRISTMAS. 235 



paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there to grow 
young and loving again among the endearing mementos of child- 
hood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that gives 
a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive 
a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. 
Our feeUngs sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny 
landscape, and we "live abroad and every where." The song 
of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of 
spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of 
autumn ; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven 
with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us 
with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of 
mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies 
despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted 
snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreari- 
ness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and 
darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in 
our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly 
disposed for the pleasure of the social circle. Our thoughts are 
more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused. "We 
feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are 
brought more closely together by dependence on each other for 
enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart ; and we draw our pleasures 
from the deep wells of loving-kindness, which lie in the quiet 
recesses of our bosoms ; and which, when resorted to, furnish 
forth the pure element of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering 
the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. 
The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through 



23G 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the room, and lights up each countenance in a kindlier welcome. 
Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader 
and more cordial smile — where is the shy glance of love more 
sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fireside ? and as the hollow 
blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant 
door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, 
what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and shel- 
tered security, with which we look round upon the comfortable 
chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity ? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit through- 
out every class of society, have always been fond of those festi- 
vals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of coun- 
try life ; and they were, in former days, particularly observant of 
the religious and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to 
read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given of 
the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandon- 
ment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this festival was 
celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock 
every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and 
blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. 
The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the 
harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned 
under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage wel- 
comed the festive season wdth green decorations of bay and holly 
— the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting 
the passengers to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled 
round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes 
and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modem refinement is the 
liavoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It 



CHRISTMAS. 



237 



has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs 
of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into 
a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic 
surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have 
entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are 
become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. 
They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men 
enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously ; times wild and 
picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materi- 
als, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters 
and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is 
more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has ex- 
panded into a broader, but a shallower stream ; and has forsaken 
many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly 
through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired 
a more enlightened and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its 
strong local peculiarities, its home-bred feelings, its honest fire- 
side delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted anti- 
quity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have passed 
away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in which 
they were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, 
the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted 
to the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern 
villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. 
It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which 
holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The prepa- 
rations making on every side for the social board that is again to 
unite friends and kindred; the presents of good cheer passing 



238 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



and repassing, those tokens of regard, and quickeners of kind 
feelings ; the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, 
emblems of peace and gladness ; all these have the most pleasing 
effect in producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent 
sympathies. Even the sound of the Waits, rude as may be their 
minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night with 
the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by 
them in that still and solemn hour, " when deep sleep falleth upon 
man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and, connecting 
them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied' 
them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will 
to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by 
these moral influences, turns every thing to melody and beauty ! 
The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound 
repose of the country, " telling the night watches to his feathery 
dames," was thought by the common people to announce the 
approach of this sacred festival : 



" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike. 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm. 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." 



Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and 
stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can 
remain insensible ? It is, indeed, the season of re^^enerated feel- 



CHRISTMAS. 



239. 



ing — the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in 
the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond 
the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, fraught with the 
fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit ; 
as the Ai-abian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the 
distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though for me 
no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its 
doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the 
threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into 
my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely hap- 
piness is reflective, like the light of heaven ; and every counte- 
nance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, 
is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever- 
shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from 
contemplating the felicity of his fellow beings, and can sit down 
darkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, 
may have his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratifica- 
tion, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which consti- 
tute the charm of a merry Christmas. 



THE STAGE COACH. 



Omne ben6 

Sine pcena 
Tempus est ludendi. 

Venit hora 

Absque mora. 
Libros deponeudi. 

Old Holiday School Song. 



In the preceding paper I have made some general observations 
on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illus- 
trate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the coun- 
try ; in perusing which I would most courteously invite my reader 
to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine 
holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only for 
amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a 
long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding 
Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with pas- 
sengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the man- 
sions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was 
loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of deli- 
cacies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the coach- 
man's box, presents from distant friends for the impending feast. 
I liad three fine rosy-cheeked school boys fo my fellow passen- 

11 



242 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



gers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit which I 
have observed in the children of this country. They were return- 
ing home for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves 
a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic 
plans of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were 
to perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the ab- 
horred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. • They were full 
of anticipations of the meeting with the family and household, 
down to the very cat and dog ; and of the joy they were to give 
their little sisters by the presents with which their pockets were 
crammed ; but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward 
with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found to 
be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more virtues 
than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could 
trot ! how he could run ! and then such leaps as he would take — 
there was not a hedge in the whole country that he could not 
clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the coach- 
man, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed 
a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows 
in the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordi- 
nary air of bustle and importance of the coachman, w^ho wore his 
hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas 
greens stuck in the button-hole of his coat. He is always a per- 
sonage full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so 
during this season, having so many commissions to execute in conse- 
quence of the great interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, 
it may not be unacceptable to my untraveled readers, to have a 
sketch that may serve as a general representation of this very nu- 
merous and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a 



THE STAGE COACH. 



243 



manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent 
throughout the fraternity ; so that, wherever an English stage- 
coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any 
other craft or mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with 
red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every 
vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent 
potations of malt Hquors, and his bulk is still further increased by 
a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, 
the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, 
low-crowned hat ; a huge roll of colored handkerchief about his 
neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom ; and has in 
summer time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole ; the 
present, most probably, of some enamored country lass. His 
waistcoat is commonly of some bright color, striped, and his small- 
clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots 
which reach about half way up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision ; he has a 
pride in having his clothes of excellent materials ; and, notwith- 
standing the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still 
discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which is almost 
inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and 
consideration along the road ; has frequent conferences with the 
village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust 
and dependence; and he seems to have a good understanding 
with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives 
where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins 
with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of 
the ostler ; his duty being merely to drive from one stage to 
another. When off the box, his hands are thrust into the pockets 



244 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



of his great coat, and lie rolls about the inn yard with an air of 
the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded 
by an admiring throng of ostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and 
those nameless hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run 
errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of batten- 
ing on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap- 
room. These all look up to him as to an oracle s treasure up his 
cant phrases ; echo his opinions about horses and other topics of 
jockey lore ; and above all, endeavor to imitate his air and car- 
riage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his 
hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an em- 
bryo Coachey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned 
in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every coun- 
tenance throughout the journey. A stage coach, however, carries 
animation always with it, and puts the world in motion as it 
whirls alongs. The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, 
produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends ; 
some with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and in the 
hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the group that 
accompanies them. In the meantime, the coachman has a world 
of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare 
or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the 
door of a public house ; and sometimes, with knowing leer and 
words of sly import, hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing 
housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. 
As the coach rattles through the village, every one runs to the 
window, and you have glances on every side of fresh country faces 
and blooming giggling girls. At the corners are assembled jun- 
tos of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there 



THE STAGE COACH. 245 



for the important purpose of seeing company pass ; but the sagest 
knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the 
coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with 
the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by ; the 
Cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and suffer 
the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty spectre, in brown paper cap, 
labormg at the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and 
permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while 
he glares through the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of 
the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than 
usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if every 
body was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and 
other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the vil- 
lages ; the grocers', butchers' and fruiterers' shops were thronged 
with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, 
putting their d^vellings in order ; and the glossy branches of holly 
with their bright-red berries, began to appear at the windows. 
The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas 
preparations : — " Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, 
and ducks, with beef and mutton — must all die — for in twelve 
days a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now 
plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. 
Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance 
and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The 
country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if 
she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the con- 
tention of holly and ivy, whether master or dame wears the 
breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler ; and if the cook do 
not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 



246 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, by a shout 
from my little traveling companions. They had been looking out 
of the coach windows for the last few miles, recognizing every 
tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there was a 
general burst of joy — " There's John ! and there's old Carlo ! and 
there's Bantam!" cried the happy little rogues, clapping their 
hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober looking servant 
in livery, waiting for them ; he was accompanied by a superan- 
nuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of 
a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing 
quietly by the road-side, little dreaming of the bustling times that 
awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows 
leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer ; 
who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great 
object of interest ; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with 
some difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, 
and the eldest should ride first. 

Oil they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog bounding 
and barking before him, and the others holding John's hands ; 
both talking at once, and overpowering him with questions about 
home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a 
feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy 
predominated ; for I was reminded of those days when, like them, 
I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the sum- 
mit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterwards to 
water the horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road 
brought us in sight of a neat country seat. I could just distin- 
guish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and 



THE STAGE COACH. 



247 



I saw my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, 
trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach 
window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove 
of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had determined 
to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of 
the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire 
beaming through a window. I entered, and admired, for the 
hundredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad 
honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of spa- 
cious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly 
polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green. 
Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon, were suspended from the 
ceiling ; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fire- 
place, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal 
table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round 
of beef, and other hearty viands, upon it, over which two foaming 
tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travelers of inferior 
order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while others sat 
smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken 
settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying back- 
wards and forwards under the directions of a fresh bustling land- 
lady ; but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flip- 
pant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group round the 
fire. The scene completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea 
of the comforts of mid-winter : 



Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair ; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast, 



248 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



Tobacco and a good coal fire, 

Are things this season doth require.* 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to 
the door. A young gentleman stept out, and bj the light of the 
lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I 
knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye 
caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank Bracebridge, a 
sprightly good-humored young fellow, with whom I had once tra- 
veled on the continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, fors 
the countenance of an old fellow-traveler always brings up the 
recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and 
excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at 
an inn was impossible ; and finding that I was not pressed for 
time, and was merely making a tour of observation, he insisted 
that I should give him a day or two at his father's country seat, to 
which he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a few 
miles distance. " It is better than eating a solitary Christmas 
dinner at an inn," said he, " and I can assure you of a hearty 
welcome in something of the old-fashioned style." His reasoning 
was cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had seen for 
universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a little 
impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, with his 
invitation ; the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments 
I was on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges. 

* Poor Robin's Almanac, 1684. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight ; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets : 

From curfew time 

To the next prime 



Cartwright. 



It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold ; our chaise 
whirled rapidly over the frozen ground ; the postboy smacked 
his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a 
gallop. " He knows where he is going," said my companion, 
laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for some of the merri- 
ment and good cheer of the servants' hall. My father, you must 
know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides himself 
upon keeping up something of old English hospitality. He is a 
tolerable specimen of what you Avill rarely meet with now-a-days 
in its purity, the old English country gentleman ; for our men of 
fortune spend so much of their time in town, and fashion is car- 
ried so much into the country, that the strong rich peculiarities of 
ancient rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, 
from early years, took honest Peacham* for his text-book, instead 

* Peacham's Complete Gentleman, 1622. 
11* 



250 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



of Chesterfield ; he determined in his own mind, that there was 
no condition more truly honorable and enviable than that of a 
country gentleman on his paternal lands, and therefore passes 
the whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate 
for the revival of the old rural games and holiday observances, 
and is deeply read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have 
treated on the subject. Indeed, his favorite range of reading is 
among the authors who flourished at least two centuries since ; 
who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true Englishmen 
than any of their successors. He even regrets sometimes that he 
had not been born a few centuries earlier, when England was 
itself, and had its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at 
some distance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the 
country, Avithout any rival gentry near him, he has that most en- 
viable of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of 
indulging the bent of his own humor without molestation. Being 
representative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, and a 
great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked 
up to, and, in general, is known simply by the appellation of 
' The Squire ;' a title which has been accorded to the head of 
the family since time immemorial. I think it best to give you 
these hints about my worthy old father, to prepare you for any 
eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd." 

"We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at 
length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy mag- 
nificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into 
flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that supported 
the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoining 
was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir-trees, and almost 
buried in shrubbery. 



CHRISTMAS EVK. 



251 



The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant bark- 
ing of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. 
An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As the moon- 
light fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive 
dame, dressed very much in the antique taste, with a neat ker- 
chief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a 
cap of snowy whiteness. She came curtseying forth, with many 
expressions of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her hus- 
band, it seemed, was up at the house keeping Christmas eve in 
the servants' hall ; they could not do without him, as he was the 
best hand at a song and story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through 
the park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while the 
chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble ave- 
nue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon glit- 
tered as she rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. 
The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, 
which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty 
crystal ; and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent vapor, 
stealing up from the low grounds and threatening gradually to 
shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport : — " How 
often," said he, " have I scampered up this avenue, on returning 
home on school vacations ! How often have I played under these 
trees when a boy ! I feel a degree of filial reverence for them, 
as we look up to those who have cherished us in childhood. My 
father was always scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and having 
us around him on family festivals. He used to direct and super- 
intend our games with the strictness that some parents do the 



352 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



studies of their children. He was very particular that we should 
play the old English games according to their original form ; and 
consulted old books for precedent and authority for every ' merrie 
disport ;' yet I assure you there never was pedantry so delightful. 
It was the policy of the good old gentleman to make his children 
feel that home was the happiest place in the world ; and I value 
this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent 
could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of all 
sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and curs of 
low degree," that, disturbed by the ring of the porter's bell and 
the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, across 
the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me !" 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the bark 
was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was sur- 
rounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful 
animals. 

We had how come in full view of the old family mansion, 
partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold 
moonshine. It was an irregular building, of some magnitude, 
and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. One 
wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow 
windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the foliage 
of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered with 
the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French taste 
of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired and altered- 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 253 



as my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, who returned with 
that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds about the house 
were laid out in the old formal manner of artificial flower-beds, 
clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, 
ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. 
The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely careful to preserve 
this obsolete finery in all its original state. . He admired this 
fashion in gardening ; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly 
and noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imi- 
tation of nature in modern gardening had sprung up with modern 
republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical government ; it 
smacked of the leveling system. — I could not help smiling at this 
introduction of politics into gardening, though I expressed some 
apprehension that I should find the old gentleman rather intol- 
erant in his creed. — Frank assured me, however, that it was 
almost the only instance in which he had ever heard his father 
meddle with politics ; and he believed that he had got this notion 
from a member of parliament who once passed a few weeks with 
him. The squire was glad of any argument to defend his clipped 
yew-trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally 
attacked by modern landscape gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, 
and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the build- 
ing. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the servants' 
hall, where a great deal of revehy was permitted, and even 
encouraged, by the squire, throughout the twelve days of Christ- 
mas, provided every thing was done conformably to ancient usage. 
Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the 
wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snap 
dragon : the Yule clog and Christmas candle were regularly 



254 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



burnt, and the mistletoe, with its white berries, hung up, to the 
imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids.* 

So intent were the servants upon their sports, that we had to 
ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our 
arrival being announced, the squire came out to receive us, 
accompanied by his two other sons ; one a young officer in the 
army, home on leave of absence ; the other ^n Oxonian, just 
from the university. The squire was a fine healthy-looking old 
gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an open florid 
countenance ; in which the physiognomist, with the advantage, 
like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular 
mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and aiFectionate : as the even- 
ing was far advanced, the squire would not permit us to change 
our traveling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, 
which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. It was com- 
posed of different branches of a numerous family connection, 
where there were the usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, 
comfortable married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming 
country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding- 
school hoydens. They were variously occupied ; some at a round 
game of cards ; others conversing around the fireplace ; at one 
end of the hall was a group of the young folks, some nearly 
grown up, others of a more tender and budding age, fully en- 
grossed by a merry game ; and a profusion of wooden horses, 
penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces 



* The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at Christmas ; 
and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking 
each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the privi- 
lege ceases. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 255 



of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a 
happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful 
night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between young 
Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. 
I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, 
and the squire had evidently endeavored to restore it to some- 
thing of its primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace 
was suspended a picture of a warrior in armor, standing by a 
white horse, and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, 
and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were inserted 
in the w^all, the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend 
hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the corners of the apartment were 
fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sporting implements. The 
furniture was of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, 
though some articles of modern convenience had been added, and 
the oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole presented 
an odd mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming 
fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which 
was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and sending forth a 
vast volume of light and heat : this I understood M^as the Yule 
clog, which the squire was particular in having brought in and 
illumined on a Christmas eve, accordins; to ancient custom.* 



* The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, 
brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in the 
fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there 
was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was accom- 
panied by Christmas candles ; but in the cottages the only light was from the 



256 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in his 
hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside of his ances- 
tors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, beaming 
warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog that 
lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his position and 
yawned, would look fondly up in his master's face, wag his tail 
against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, confident of 
kindness and protection. There is an emanation from the heart 
in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is immedi- 
ately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not^ 
been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the wor- 
thy old cavalier, before I found myself as much at home as if I 
had been one of the family. i 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was j 
served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which \ 

ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule clog was to bum all night ; if : 
it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : — j 

Come, bring with a noise, ; 

My merrie, merrie boyes, I 

The Christmas log to the firing ; j 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free, ! 

And drink to your hearts desiring. I 

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in England, 
particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connected with it 
among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is 
burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand 
remaining from the Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next years 
Christmas fire. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



257 



shone with wax, and around which were several family portraits 
decorated with holly and ivy. ' Besides the accustomed lights, 
two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed with 
greens, were placed on a highly polished beaufet among the 
family plate. The table was abundantly spread with substantial 
fare ; but the squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made 
of wheat cakes boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a standing 
dish in old times for Christmas eve. I was happy to find my old 
friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast ; and finding him to 
be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed of my 
predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we 
usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the 
humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge always 
addressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He was 
a tight brisk little man, with the air of an arrant old bachelor. 
His nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot ; his face slightly 
pitted with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like 
a frostbitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quickness 
and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery of expression 
that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, 
dealing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, 
and making infinite merriment by harpings upon old themes; 
which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the family chronicles did 
not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight 
during supper to keep a young girl next him in a continual 
agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving 
looks of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol 
of the younger part of the company, who laughed at every thing 
he said or did, and at every turn of his countenance. T could not 



258 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



wonder at it ; for he must have been a miracle of accomplish- 
ments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make 
an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork 
and pocket-handkerchief; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous 
caricature, that the young folks were ready to die with laughing. 
I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He 
was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, which, by 
careful management, was sufficient for all his wants. He re- 
volved through the family system like a vagrant comet in its 
orbit ; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes another 
quite remote ; as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive 
connections and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping 
buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present moment; and 
his frequent change of scene and company prevented his acquir- 
ing those rusty unaccommodating habits, with which old bachelors 
are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete family chroni- 
cle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and intermarriages of 
the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a great favorite 
with the old folks ; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and 
superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually con- 
sidered rather a young fellow, and he was master of the revels 
among the children ; so that there was not a more popular being 
in the sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. 
Of late years, he had resided almost entirely with the squire, to 
whom he had become a factotum, and whom he particularly 
delighted by jumping with his humor in respect to old times, and 
by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We had 
presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for no sooner 
was supper removed, and spiced wines and other beverages pecu- 
liar to the "season introduced, than Master Simon was called on 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



259 



for a good old Christmas song. He bethought himself for a 
! moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that 
I was by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a 

falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint 

old ditty. 

Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together. 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 



The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old 
harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had been 
strumming all the evening, and to all appearance comforting him- 
self with some of the squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of 
hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and, though ostensibly 
a resident of the village, was oftener to be found in the squire's 
kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman being fond of the 
sound of " harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one : 
some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire himself figured 
down several couple with a partner, with whom he affirmed 
he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a century. 
Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connecting link 
between the old times and the new, and to be withal a little 
antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued 
himself on his dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by 
the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school ; 
but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little romping girl 



2G0 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him con- 
tinually on the stretch, and defeated all his sober attempts at 
elegance : — such are the ill-assorted matches to which antique 
gentlemen are unfortunately prone ! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his 
maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little knave- 
ries with impunity ; he was full of practical jokes, and his delight 
was to tease his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all madcap young- 
sters, he Avas a universal favorite among the women. The most 
interesting couple in the dance was the young officer and a ward 
of the squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From 
several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of the even- 
ing, I suspected there was a little kindness growing up between 
them ; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero to capti- 
vate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and handsome, and, 
like most young British officers of late years, had picked up 
various small accomplishments on the continent — he could talk 
French and Italian — draw landscapes, sing very tolerably — 
dance divinely ; but, above all, he had been wounded at Water- 
loo : — what girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, 
could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and, 
lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude which J am 
half inclined to suspect was studied, began the little French air 
of the Troubadour. The squire, however, exclaimed against 
having any thing on Christmas eve but good old English ; upon 
which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if 
in an effi)rt of memory, struck into another strain, and, with 
a charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's "Night-Piece to 
Julia:" 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 2G1 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee, 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee ; 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way. 

Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me, 
• And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet. 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been intended in compli- 
ment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called ; 
she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such application, 
for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon 
the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful 
blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that 
was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance ; indeed, so 
great was her indifference, that she amused herself with plucking 
to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by the time 
the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



The party now broke up for the night with the kind-hearted 
old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall, on 
my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule clog still 
sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not been the season when "no 
spirit dares stir abroad," 1 should have been half tempted to steal 
from my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies might 
not be at their revels about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponder- 
ous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days of 
the giants. The room was panneled, with cornices of heavy 
carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely 
intermingled ; and a row of black-looking portraits stared mourn- 
fully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich though faded 
damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow 
window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music 
seemed to break forth in the air just below the window. I lis- 
tened, and found it proceeded from a band, which I concluded to 
be the waits from some neighboring village. They went round 
the house, playing under the windows. I drew aside the curtains 
to hear them more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the 
upper part of the casement, partially lighting up the antiquated 
apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and 
aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet and moonlight. I lis- 
tened and listened — they became more and more tender and remote, 
and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, 
and I fell asleep. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 
******* 

Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corn ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden 1 — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

Herrick. 



When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events 
of the preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing but the 
identity of the ancient chamber convinced me of their reality. 
While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the sound of little feet 
pattering outside of the door, and a whispering consultation. 
Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth an old Christmas 
carol, the burden of which was — 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was bom 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, 
and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a 
painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the 
eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going 



264 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the rounds of the house, and singing at every chamber door ; but 
my sudden appearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. 
They remained for a moment playing on their lips with their fin- 
gers, and now and then stealing a shy glance, from under their 
eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they scampered away, and 
as they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing in 
triumph at their escape. 

Every thing conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in 
tliis strong-hold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of my 
chamber looked out upon what in summer Avould have been a 
beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream 
winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with noble 
clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat 
hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over 
it ; and a church with its dark spire in strong relief against the 
clear cold sky. The house was surrounded with evergreens, ac- 
cording to the English custom, which would have given almost an 
appearance of summer ; but the morning was extremely frosty ; 
the light vapor of the preceding evening had been precipitated by 
the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of grass with 
its fine crystalizations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a 
dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin, perched 
upon the top of a mountain ash that hung its clusters of red ber- 
ries just before my window, was basking himself in the sunshine, 
and piping a few querulous notes ; and a peacock was displaying 
all the glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity 
of a Spanish grandee, on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to 
invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small 
chapel in the old wdng of the house, where I found the principal 




^-'^Leir 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



'2G5 



part of the family already assembled in a kind of gallery, fur- 
nished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer-books ; the ser- 
vants were seated on benches below. The old gentleman read 
prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon 
acted as clerk, and made the responses ; and I must do him the 
justice to say that he acquitted himself with great gravity and 
decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. 
Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favorite 
author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to an old church 
melody by Master Simon. As there were several good voices 
among the household, the effect was extremely pleasing ; but I 
was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and sudden 
sally of grateful feeling, with which the worthy squire delivered 
one stanza ; his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of all 
the bounds of time and tune : 

" 'Tis thou that crown' st my glittering hearth 

With guihlesse mirth. 
And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink : 
Lord, 'tis thy plenty- dropping hand 

That soiles my land : 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one." 



I afterwards understood that early morning service was read 
on every Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, either by 
Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of the family-. It was once 
almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gentry 
of England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is 

12 



266 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



falling into neglect ; for the dullest observer must be sensible of 
tbe order and serenity prevalent in those households, where the 
occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning 
gives, as it were, the key-note to every temper for the day, and 
attunes every spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denominated true 
old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over 
modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among 
the causes of modern effeminacy and weak nerves, and the de- 
cline of old English heartiness ; and though he admitted them to 
his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave 
display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Brace- 
bridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was called by every 
body but the squire. We were escorted by a number of gentle- 
manhke dogs, that seemed loungers about the establishment ; from 
the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound ; the last of which 
was of a race that had been in the family time out of mind : 
they were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to Master 
Simon's button-hole, and in the midst of their gambols would 
glance an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in 
his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yel- 
low sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not but feel 
the force of the squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily 
moulded balustrades, and clipped yew-trees, carried with them an 
air of proud aristocracy. There appeared to be an unusual num- 
ber of peacocks about the place, and I was making some remarks 
upon what I termed a flock of them, that were basking under a 
sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 267 



Master Simon, who told me that, according to the most ancient and 
approved treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. 
" In the same way," added he, with a slight air of pedantry, " we 
say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, 
of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." 
He went on to inform me that, according to Sir Anthony Fitz- 
herbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird " both understanding and 
glory ; for, being praised, he will presently set up his tail, chiefly 
against the sun, to the intent you may the better behold the beauty 
thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will 
mourn and hide himself in corners, till his tail come again as 
it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on so 
whimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks were birds of 
some consequence at the hall ; for Frank Bracebridge informed me 
that they were great favorites with his father, who was extremely 
careful to keep up the breed ; partly because they belonged to 
chivalry, and were in great request at the stately banquets of the 
olden time ; and partly because they had a pomp and magnifi- 
cence about them, highly becoming an old family mansion. 
Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of greater state 
and dignity than a peacock perched upon an antique stone balus- 
trade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment 
at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to per- 
form some music of his selection. There was something ex- 
tremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the 
little man ; and I confess I had been somewhat surprised at 
his apt quotations from authors who certainly were not in the 
range of every-day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance 



268 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

to Frank Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master 
Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined to some half a 
dozen old authors, which the squire had put into his hands, and 
which he read over and over, whenever he had a studious fit ; as 
he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter evening. Sir 
Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry ; Markham's Country 
Contentments ; the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir. Thomas Cock- 
ayne, Knight; Isaac Walton's Angler, and two or three more 
such ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard authorities ; 
and, like all men who know but a few books, he looked up to 
them -with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. 
As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the 
squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among 
the choice spirits of the last century. His practical application 
of scraps of literature, however, had caused him to be looked 
upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by all the grooms, hunts- 
men, and small sportsmen of the neighborhood. 

While we were talking we heard the distant toll of the village 
bell, and I was told that the squire was a little particular in having 
his household at church on a Christmas morning ; considering it a 
day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser 
observed, 

" At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 
And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small." 



" If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace- 
bridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's 
musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, 
he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and established 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



369 



a musical club for their improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, 
as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to the direc- 
tions of Jervaise Markham, in his Country Contentments : for 
the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, solemn mouths,' and for 
the tenor the ' loud-ringing mouths,' among the country bumpkins ; 
and for ' sweet mouths,' he has culled with curious taste among 
the prettiest lasses in the neighborhood ; though these last, he 
affirms, are the most difficult to keep in tune ; your pretty female 
singer being exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable 
to accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, 
the most of the family walked to the church, which was a very 
old building of gray stone, and stood near a village, about half a 
mile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, 
which seemed coeval with the church. The front of it was per- 
fectly matted with a yew-tree, that had been trained against its 
walls, through the dense foliage of which, apertures had been 
formed to admit light into the small antique lattices. As we passed 
this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, such as 
is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's 
table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, 
black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and 
stood off from each ear ; so that his head seemed to have shrunk 
away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty 
coat, with great skirts, and pockets that would have held the 
church Bible and prayer book : and his small legs seemed still 
smaller, from being planted in large shoes, decorated with enor- 
mous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson had 



370 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this 
living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was a 
complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work 
printed in the Roman character. The editions of Caxton and 
Wynkin de Worde were his delight ; and he was indefatigable in 
his researches after such old English writers as have fallen into 
oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the 
notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations 
into the festive rites and holiday customs of former times ; and 
had been as zealous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon com- 
panion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with which 
men of adust temperament follow up any track of study, merely 
because it is denominated learning; indifferent to its intrinsic 
nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the 
ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these 
old volumes so intensely, that they seemed to have been 
reflected into his countenance ; which, if the face be indeed an 
index of the mind, might be compared to a title-page of black- 
letter. 

On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuking 
the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the 
greens with which the church was decorated. It was, he observed, 
an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the Druids in 
their mystic ceremonies; and though it might be innocently 
employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it 
had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, 
and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on 
this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down a great 
part of the humble trophies of his taste, before the parson would 
consent to enter upon the service of the day. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



371 



The interior of the church was venerable but simple ; on the 
walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and 
just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on 
which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, with his legs crossed, 
a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it was one of 
the family who had signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the 
same whose picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. 

During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and 
repeated the responses very audibly ; evincing that kind of cere- 
monious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the 
old school, and a man of old family connections. I observed too 
that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer-book with some- 
thing of a flourish ; possibly to show off an enormous seal-ring 
which enriched one of his fingers, and which had the look of a 
family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about the 
musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently 
on the choir, and beating time with much gesticulation and 
emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most 
whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among 
which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale 
fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the 
clarinet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point; and 
there was another, a short pursy man, stooping and laboring at a 
bass-viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, 
like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces 
among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty 
morning had given a bright rosy tint ; but the gentlemen choris- 
ters had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more 
for tone than looks ; and as several had to sing from the same 



272 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



book, there were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike 
those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, 
the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, 
and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time 
by traveling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing 
more bars than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But 
the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and 
arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great 
expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset ; 
the musicians became flurried ; Master Simon was in a fever ; 
every thing went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a 
chorus beginning " Now let us sing with one accord," which 
seemed to be a signal for parting company : all became discord 
and confusion ; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as 
well, or, rather, as soon as he could, excepting one old chorister 
in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long sono- 
rous nose ; who happened to stand a little apart, and, being wrap- 
ped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling 
his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of 
at least three bars duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and 
ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it not 
merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing ; supporting the 
correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages of the church, 
and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, 
St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of 
saints and fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I 
was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty 
array of forces to maintain a point which no one present seemed 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



273 



inclined to dispute ; but I soon found that the good man had a 
legion of ideal adversaries to contend with ; having, in the course 
of his researches on the subject of Christmas, got completely 
embroiled in the sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when 
the Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies 
of the church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land 
by proclamation of Parliament.* The worthy parson lived but 
with times past, and knew but little of the present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his 
antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as the 
gazettes of the day ; while the era of the Revolution was mere 
modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed 
since the fiery persecution of poor mince-pie throughout the land ; 
when plum porridge was denounced as " mere popery," and roast 
beef as anti-christian ; and that Christmas had been brought in 
again triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the 
Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of his con- 
test, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat ; 
he had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three other 



* From the " Flying Eagle," a small Gazette, published December 24th, 
1652 — " The House spent much time this day about the business of the Navy, 
for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented with a terri- 
ble remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 
Cor. V. 16. 1 Cor. xv. 14. 17 ; and in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded upon 
these Scriptures, John xx. 1. Rev. i. 10. Psalms cxviii. 24. Lev. xxiii. 7. 11. 
Mark xv. 8. Psalms Ixxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called Anti-christ's 
masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists who observe it, etc. In conse- 
quence of which parliament spent some time in consultation about the abolition 
of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the follow- 
ing d^y, which was commonly called Christmas day." 

12* 



274 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



forgotten champions of the Round Heads, on the subject of Christ- 
mas festivity ; and concluded by urging his hearers, in the most 
solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the traditional customs 
of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful anniver- 
sary of the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more 
immediate effects ; for on leaving the church the congregation 
seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit so earnestly 
enjoined by their pas-tor. The elder folks gathered in knots in 
the church-yard, greeting and shaking hands ; and the children^ 
ran about crying Ule ! Ule ! and repeating some uncouth rhymes,* 
which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had been 
handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats 
to the squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the 
season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were 
invited by him to the hall, to take something to keep out the cold 
of the weather ; and I heard blessings uttered by several of the 
poor, which convinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, 
the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas 
virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with 
generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground 
which commanded something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic 
merriment now and then reached our ears : the squire paused for 
a few moments, and looked around with an air of inexpressible 
benignity. The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to 
inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the mom- 

» « Ule ! Ule ! 

Three puddings in a pule ; 

Crack nuts and cry ule !" ^ 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



275 



ing, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient power 
to melt away the thin covering of snow from every southern 
declivity, and to bring out the living green which adorns an Eng- 
lish landscape even in mid-winter. Large tracts of smiling ver- 
dure contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes 
and hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the broad rays 
rested, yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering 
through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight exhalations to 
contribute to the thin haze that hung just above the surface of the 
earth. There was something truly cheering in this triumph of 
warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, 
as the squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, break- 
ing through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing 
every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indica- 
tions of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the comfortable 
farmhouses, and low thatched cottages. " I love," said he, " to 
see this day well kept by rich and poor ; it is a great thing to 
have one day in the year, at least, when you are sure of being 
welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it were, the world 
all thrown open to you ; and I am almost disposed to join with 
Poor Robin, in his malediction on every churlish enemy to this 
honest festival : 

" Those who at Christmas do repine, 

And would fain hence dispatch him. 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 

Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em." 



The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the 
games and amusements which were once prevalent at this season 
among the lower orders, and countenanced by the higher ; when 



276 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the old halls of castles and manor-houses were thrown open at 
daylight ; when the tables were covered with brawn, and beef, 
and humming ale ; when the harp and the carol resounded all day 
long, and when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and 
make merry.* " Our old games and local customs," said he, 
" had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and 
the promotion of them by the gentry made him, fond of his lord. 
They made the times merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can 
truly say, with one of our old poets : 

" I like them well — the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty." 

" The nation," continued he, "is altered ; we have almost lost 
our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder 
from the higher classes, and seem to think their interests are 
separate. They have become too knowing, and begin to read 
newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians, and talk of reform. I 
think one mode to keep them in good humor in these hard 
times would be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time on 
their estates, mingle more among the country people, and set the 
merry old English games going again." 

* " An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i. e. on Christ- 
mas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter his hall by 
daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black-jacks went plenti- 
fully about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The 
Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young 
men must take the maiden (i. e. the cook) by the arms, and run her round the 
market-place till she is shamed of her laziness." — Mound about our Sea-Coal 
Fire. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 277 



Such was the good squire's project for mitigating public dis- 
content : and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine 
in practice, and a few years before had kept open house during 
the hohdays in the old style. The country people, however, did 
not understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitality ; 
many uncouth circumstances occurred ; the manor was overrun 
by all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into 
the neighborhood in one week than the parish officers could get 
rid of in a year. Since then, he had contented himself with 
inviting the decent part of the neighboring peasantry to call at 
the hall on Christmas day, and with distributing beef, and bread, 
and ale, among the poor, that they might make merry in their 
own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music was 
heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without coats, 
their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribands, their hats decorated 
with greens, and clubs in their hands, was seen advancing up the 
avenue, followed by a large number of villagers and peasantry. 
They stopped before the hall door, where the music struck up a 
peculiar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance, 
advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs together, keeping 
exact time to the music ; while one, whimsically crowned with a 
fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering 
round the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with 
many antic gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest 
and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he 
traced to the times when the Romans held possession of the 
island ; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the 
sword dance of the ancients. " It was now," he said, " nearly 



378 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it in the neigh- 
borhood, and had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell the truth, 
it was too apt to be followed up by the rough cudgel play, and 
broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was en- 
tertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The 
squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received with 
awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It is true I 
perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they were 
raising their tankards to their mouths, when the squire's back 
was turned, making something of a grimace, and giving each 
other the wink ; but the moment they caught my eye they pulled 
grave faces, and were exceedingly demure. With Master Simon, 
however, they all seemed more at their ease. His varied occu- 
pations and amusements had made him well known throughout 
the neighborhood. He was a visitor at every farmhouse and 
cottage ; gossiped with the farmers and their wives ; romped with 
their daughters ; and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the 
bumblebee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country 
round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good 
cheer and affability. There is something genuine and affection- 
ate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the 
bounty and familiarity of those above them ; the warm glow of 
gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word or a small 
pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the 
dependent more than oil and wine. When the squire had retired, 
the merriment increased, and there was much joking and laugh- 
ter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, 
white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village ; 



CHRISTMAS DAY, 



279 



for I observed all his companions to wait with open mouths for 
his retorts, and burst into a gratuitous laugh before they could 
well understand them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment : as 
I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of 
music in a small court, and looking through a window that com- 
manded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, with 
pandean pipes and tambourine ; a pretty coquettish housemaid 
was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several of the 
other servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport the 
girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, coloring up, 
ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 



Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast ! 

Let every man be jolly, 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all onr neighbours' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmjis blocks are burning ; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 

Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee'le bury 't in a Christmas pye. 
And evermore be merry. 

Withers' Juvenilia. 



I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Brace- 
bridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwacking sound, 
which he informed me was a signal for the serving up of the din- 
ner. The squire kept up old customs in kitchen as well as hall ; 
and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook, sum- 
moned the servants to carry in the meats. 



Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice. 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey ; 
Each serving man, with dish in hand. 



282 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

March'd boldly up, like our train band. 
Presented and away.* 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the squire 
always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing crackling fire of 
logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, and 
the flame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide-mouthed 
chimney. The great picture of the crusader and "his white horse 
had been profusely decorated with greens for the occasion ; and 
holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the helmet and 
weapons on the opposite wall, which I understood were the arms 
of the same warrior. I must own, by the by, I had strong doubts 
about the authenticity of the painting and armor as having be- 
longed to the crusader, they certainly having the stamp of more 
recent days ; but I was told that the painting had been so con- 
sidered time out of mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been 
found in a lumber-room, and elevated to its present situation by 
the squire, who at once determined it to be the armor of the 
family hero ; and as he was absolute authority on all such sub- 
jects in his own household, the matter had passed into current 
acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under this chivalric 
trophy, on which was a display of plate that might have vied (at 
least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the 
temple : " flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers ;" 
the gorgeous utensils of good companionship that had gradually 
accumulated through many generations of jovial housekeepers. 
Before these stood the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars 
of the first magnitude ; other lights were distributed in branches, 
and the whole array glittered like a firmament of silver. 

* Sir John Suckling. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 



283 



We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound 
of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool beside the 
fireplace, and twanging his instrument with a vast deal more 
power than melody. Never did Christmas board display a more 
goodly and gracious assemblage of countenances ; those who were 
not handsome were, at least, happy ; and happiness is a rare 
improver of your hard-favored visage. I always consider an old 
English family as well worth studying as a collection of Holbein's 
portraits or Albert Durer's prints. There is much antiquarian 
lore to be acquired ; much knowledge of the physiognomies of 
form^er times. Perhaps it may be from having continually before 
their eyes those rows of old family portraits, with which the 
mansions of this country are stocked ; certain it is, that the quaint 
features of antiquity are often most faithfully perpetuated in these 
ancient lines ; and I have traced an old family nose through a 
whole picture gallery, legitimately handed down from generation 
to generation, almost from the time of the Conquest. Something 
of the kind was to be observed in the worthy company around 
me. Many of their faces had evidently originated in a gothic 
age, and been merely copied by succeeding generations; and 
there was one little girl in particular, of staid demeanor, with a 
high Roman nose, and an antique vinegar aspect, who was a 
great favorite of the squire's, being, as he said, a Bracebridge all 
over, and the very counterpart of one of his ancestors who figured 
in the court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one, 
such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these unceremoni- 
ous days ; but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the ancient 
school. There was now a pause, as if something was expected ; 
when suddenly the butler entered the hall with some degree of 



284 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



bustle : he was attended by a servant on each side with a large 
wax-light, and bore a silver dish, on which was an enormous pig's 
head, decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which 
was placed with great formality at the head of the table. The 
moment this pageant made its appearance, the harper struck up 
a flourish; at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on 
receiving a hint from the squire, gave, with an air of the most 
comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as 
follows : 

Caput apri defero 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merily 

Qui estis in convivio. 



Though prepared to witness many of these httle eccentricitieSj 
from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host ; yet, I 
confess, the parade with which so odd a dish was introduced 
somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from the conversation 
of the squire and the parson, that it was meant to represent the 
bringing in of the boar's head ; a dish formerly served up with 
much ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great 
tables, on Christmas day. "I like the old custom," said the 
squire, " not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, 
but because it was observed at the college at Oxford at which I 
was educated. When I hear the old song chanted, it brings to 
mind the time when I was young and gamesome — and the noble 
old college ball — and my fellow students loitering about in their 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 



285 



black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are now in their 
graves !" 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such 
associations, and who was always more taken up with the text 
than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of the 
carol ; which he affirmed was different from that sung at college. 
He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commentator, to give 
the college reading, accompanied by sundry annotations ; address- 
ing himself at first to the company at large ; but finding their 
attention gradually diverted to other talk and other objects, he 
lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, until he 
concluded his remarks in an under voice, to a fat^headed old 
gentleman next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion 
of a huge plateful of turkey.* 

* The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day is still 
observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson 
with a copy of the carol as nov/ sang, and as it may be acceptable to such of 
my readers as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire. 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry, 
Quot estis in convivio. 

Caput apri defero, 

Reddens laudes domino. 



The boar's head, as 1 understand. 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
Let us servire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 



286 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented 
an epitome of country abundance, in this season of overflowing 
larders. A distinguished post was allotted to " ancient sirloin," 
as mine host termed it ; being, as he added, " the standard of old 
English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of 
expectation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and 
which had evidently something traditional in their embellish- 
ments ; but about which, as I did not like to appear over-curious, 
I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently decorated 
with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which 
overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. This, the squire 
confessed, with some little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though 
a peacock pie was certainly the most authentical ; but there had 
been such a mortality among the peacocks this season, that he 
could not prevail upon himself to have one killed.* 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Reginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero, 

etc., etc., etc. 



* The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertainments. 
Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared 
above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt ; at the other end 
the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of 
chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous 
enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by cock 
and pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast ; and Mas- 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 287 



It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may 
not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to which 
I am a little given, were I to mention the other make-shifts of 
this worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavoring to follow 
up, though at humble distance, the quaint customg^of antiquity. 
I was pleased, however, to see the respect shown to his whims by 
his children and relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily into 
the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their parts ; 
having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, 
too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler and other 
servants executed the duties assigned them, however eccentric. 
They had an old-fashioned look ; having, for the most part, been 
brought up in the household, and grown into keeping with the 
antiquated mansion, and the humors of its lord ; and most proba- 
bly looked upon all his whimsical regulations as the established 
laws of honorable housekeeping. 

"WTien the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge 
silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed 
before the squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation ; 
being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. 
The contents had been prepared by the squire himself ; for it was 
a beverage in the skillful mixture of which he particularly prided 
himself : alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the 

singer, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which 
this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden 
i dmes : — 

Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 
Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues • 
Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris ; the. carcases of three fat 
\ wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock ! 



^SS THE SKETCH BOOK. 



comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, 
that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him ; be- 
ing composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and 
sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about the surface.* 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene 
look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Hav- 
ing raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a, merry Christmas 
to all present, he sent it brimming round the board, for every one 
to follow his example, according to the primitive style ; pro- 
nouncing it " the ancient fountain of good feehng, where all hearts 
met together."! 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest emblem 
of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by 
the ladies. When it reached Master Simon, he raised it in both 

* The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine ; 
with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs ; in this way the nut-brown 
beverage is still prepared in some old families, and round the hearths of sub- 
stantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated 
by Herrick in his Twelfth Night : 

Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool ; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, 

With store of ale too ; 

And thus ye must doe 
To make the Wassaile a swinger. 

t " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having 
his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry 
three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chaplein) was to 
answer with a song." — Arch^ologia. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 



hands, and with the air of a boon companion struck up an old 
Wassail chanson: 

The brown bowle, 

The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round-about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

The deep canne. 

The merry deep canne, 

As thou dost freely quaff-a. 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king. 
And sound a lusty laugh- a.* 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family 
topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great 
deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, with 
whom he was accused of having a flirtation. This attack was 
commenced by the ladies ; but it was continued throughout the 
dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman next the parson, with the 
persevering assiduity of a slow hound ; being one of those long- 
winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, are un- 
rivaled for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause in 
the general conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty much 
the same terms ; winking hard at me with both eyes, whenever 

* From Poor Robin's Almanac. 
13 



290 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



he gave Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. Tlie 
latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the subject, as old 
bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform me, in an 
under tone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously fine wo- 
man, and drove her own curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, 
and, though the old hall may have resounded in its time with 
many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it 
ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy 
it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him ; and 
how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making every 
thing in its vicinity to freshen into smiles ! the joyous dispo- 
sition of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious ; he was 
happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy ; and 
the little eccentricities of his humor did but season, in a manner, 
the sweetness of his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, be- 
came still more animated ; many good things were broached which 
had been thought of during dinner, but which would not exactly 
do for a lady's ear ; and though I cannot positively affirm that 
there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly heard many 
contests of rare wit produce much less laughter. Wit, after all, 
is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some 
stomachs ; but honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry 
meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to that where 
the jokes are rather small, and the laughter abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early college pranks 
and adventures, in some of which the parson had been a sharer ; 
though in looking at the latter, it required some effort of imagi- 
nation to figure such a little dark anatomy of a man into the per- 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 



291 



petrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two college cliums 
presented pictures of what men may be made by their diiferent 
lots in life. The squire had left the university to live lustily on 
liis paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and 
sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty and florid old age ; 
whilst the poor parson, on the contrary, had dried and withered 
away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows of his study. 
Still there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly 
glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and as the squire hinted at 
a sly story of the parson and a pretty milk-maid, whom they once 
met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made an " alpha- 
bet of faces," which, as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, 
I verily believe was indicative of laughter; — indeed, I have 
rarely met with an old gentleman that took absolute offence at the 
imputed gallantries of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry 
land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and louder 
as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as chirping a 
humor as a grasshopper filled with dew ; his old songs grew of a 
warmer complexion, and he began to talk maudlin about the 
widow. He even gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, 
which he informed me he had gathered from an excellent black- 
letter work, entitled "Cupid's Solicitor for Love," containing 
store of good advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend 
me : the first verse was to this effect : 



He that will woo a widow must not dally. 
He must make hay while the sun doth shine 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say. Widow, thou must be mine. 



292 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made 
several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller, 
that was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, 
every body recollecting the latter part excepting himself. The 
parson, too, began to show the effects of good cheer, having gradu- 
ally settled down into a dose, and his wig sitting most suspiciously 
on one side. Just at this juncture we were .summoned to the 
drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation of mine 
host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love 
of decorum. 

After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given up to 
the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind 
of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old 
walls ring with their merriment, as they played at romping games. 
I delight in witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly 
at this happy holiday season, and could not help stealing out of 
the drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. I 
found them at the game of blindman's-buff. Master Simon, 
who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occa- 
sions to fulfill the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of 
Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the hall. The little beings 
were as busy about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff ; pinch- 
ing him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with 
straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen 
hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock 

* At Christmasse there was in the Kinge's house, wheresoever hee was 
lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, and the like had ye 
in the house of every nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, were he spirituall 
or temporall. — Stowe. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 



293 



half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was 
the chief tormentor ; and, from the slyness with which Master 
Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little 
nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, 
I suspected the rogue of being not a wliit more blinded than was 
convenient. 

^Tien I returned to the drawing-room, I found the company 
seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply en- 
sconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some cunning 
artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library for his 
particular accommodation. From this venerable piece of furni- 
ture, with which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face so ad- 
mirably accorded, he was dealing out strange accounts of the 
popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, 
with which he had become acquainted in the course of his anti- 
quarian researches. I am half inchned to think that the old 
gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as 
men are very apt to be who live a recluse and studious life in a 
sequestered part of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, 
so often filled with the marvelous and supernatural. He gave us 
several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, 
concerning the effigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by 
the church altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in 
that part of the country, it had always been regarded with feel- 
ings of superstition by the good wives of the village. It was 
said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of the church- 
yard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered ; and one 
old woman, whose cottage bordered on the church-yard, had seen 
it through the windows of the church, when the moon shone, 
slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief that 



294 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or some 
treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and 
restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, 
over which the spectre kept watch ; and there was a story current 
of a sexton in old times who endeavored to break his way to the 
coffin at night, but, just as he reached it, received a violent blow 
from the marble hand of the effi.gy, which stretched him senseless 
on the pavement. These tales were often laughed at by some of 
the sturdier among the rustics, yet when night came on, there 
were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturing 
alone in the footpath that led across the church-yard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader 
appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout the 
vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought by 
the servants to have something supernatural about it ; for they 
remarked that, in whatever part of the hall you went, the eyes 
of the warrior were still fixed on you. The old porter's wife too, 
at the lodge, who had been born and brought up in the family, and 
was a great gossip among the maid servants, affirmed, that in her 
young days she had often heard say, that on Midsummer eve, 
when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies 
become visible and walk abroad, the crusader used to mount his 
horse, come down from his picture, ride about the house, down the 
avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb ; on which occa- 
sion the church door most civilly swung open of itself; not that 
he needed it ; for he rode through closed gates and even stone 
walls, and had been seen by one of the dairymaids to pass between 
two bars of the gi'eat park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet 
of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much counte- 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 



295 



nanced by the squire, who, though not superstitious himself, was 
very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin tale 
of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, and held the por- 
ter's wife in high favor on account of her talent for the marvel- 
ous. He was himself a great reader of old legends and romances, 
aud often lamented that he could not believe in them ; for a super- 
stitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our 
ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds 
from the hall, in which were mingled something like the clang of 
rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of many small voices and girlish 
laughter. The door suddenly flew open, and a train came troop- 
ing into the room, that might almost have been mistaken for the 
breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, 
Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as lord of 
misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas mummery or mask- 
ing ; and having called in to his assistance the Oxonian and the 
young officer, who were equally ripe for any thing that should 
occasion romping and merriment, they had carried it into instant 
effect. The old housekeeper had been consulted ; the antique 
clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged and made to yield up 
the relics of finery that had not seen the light for several genera- 
tions ; the younger part of the company had been privately con- 
vened from the parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened 
out, into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask.* 

Master Simon led the van, as " Ancient Christmas," quaintly 



* Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old times ; 
and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribu- 
tion to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly suspect Master 
Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmas. 



296 THE SKETCH BOOK, 



appareled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very much the 
aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that 
might have served for a village steeple, and must indubitably have 
figured in the days of the Covenanters. From under this his nose 
curved boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom, that seemed 
the very trophy of a December blast. He was accompanied by 
the blue-eyed romp, dished up as " Dame Mince Pie," in the 
venerable magnificence of a faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked 
hat, and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin 
Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal green, and a foraging cap 
with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep 
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, natural 
to a young gallant in the presence of his mistress. The fair Julia 
hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as "Maid Marian." 
The rest of the train had been metamorphosed in various ways ; 
the girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles of the 
Bracebridge line, and the striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, 
and gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bot- 
tomed wigs, to represent the character of Roast Beef, Plum Pud- 
ding, and other worthies celebrated in ancient maskings. The 
whole was under the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate 
character of Misrule ; and I observed that he exercised rather a 
mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller personages of 
the pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, accord- 
ing to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar and mer- 
riment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by the stateli- 
ness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet with 
the peerless, though giggling, Dame Mince Pie. It was followed 



^ _ .. 

I THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 297 



by a dance of all the characters, which, from its medley of cos- 
tumes, seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped 
down from their frames to join in the sport. Different centuries 
were figuring at cross hands and right and left ; the dark ages 
were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons ; and the days of Queen 
Bess jiggling merrily down the middle, through a line of succeed- 
ing generations. 

The w^orthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and 
this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of 
childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, and 
scarcely hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding that the 
latter was discoursing most authentically on the ancient and 
stately dance at the Paon, or peacock, from which he conceived 
the minuet to be derived.* For my part I was in a continual 
excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent gayety 
passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and 
warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from among the chills and 
glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and catch- 
ing once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also 
an interest in the scene, from the consideration that these fleeting 
customs were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, 
the only family in England in which the whole of them was still 
punctiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, mingled 
with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest : it Avas suited to 

* Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pavo, a 
peacock, says, " It is a grave and majestic dance ; the method of dancing it 
anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the long 
robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns 
with long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock." 
— History of Music. 

13* 



298 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

the time and place ; and as the old manor-house almost reeled 
with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of 
long departed years.* 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for me 
to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions asked 
by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this — ^how is the 
world to be made wiser by this talk ?" AlasJ is there not wis- 
dom enough extant for the instruction of the world ? And if not, 
are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improve- 
ment ! — It is so much pleasanter to please than to instruct — to 
play the companion rather than the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw 
into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my sagest 
deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others ? But 
in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own disap- 
pointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these 
days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or 
beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now 
and then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, 
prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader 
more in good humor with his fellow beings and himself, surely, 
surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain, 

* At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of an old- 
fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounced by some as out of date. 
The author had afterwards an opportunity of witnessing ahBost all the customs 
above described, existing in unexpected vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire and 
Yorkshire, where he passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find 
some notice of them in the author's account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey. 



L 



LONDON ANTiaUES. 

I do walk 

Metliinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn, j 

Stealing to set the town o' fire ; i' th' country j 

I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, | 

Or Robin Goodfellow. ! 

Fletcher. 

I AM somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond of ex- 
ploring London in quest of the relics of old times. These are 
principally to be found in the depths of the city, swallowed up 
and almost lost in a wilderness of brick and mortar ; but deriving I 
poetical and romantic interest from the commonplace prosaic I 

world around them. I was struck with an instance of the kind 

I 

in the course of a recent summer ramble into the city ; for the 
city is only to be explored to advantage in summer time, when | 
free from the smoke and fog, and rain and mud of winter. I had ' 
been buffeting for some time against the current of population 
setting through Fleet-street. The w^arm weather had unstrung i 
my nerves, and made me sensitive to every jar and jostle and dis- i 
cordant sound. The flesh was weary, the spirit faint, and I was I 
getting out of humor with the bustling busy throng through which I 
I had to struggle, when in a fit of desperation I tore my way 
through the crowd, plunged into a by lane, and after passing 
through several obscure nooks and angles, emerged into a quaint 
and quiet court with a grassplot in the centre, overhung by elms, 



300 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



and kept perpetually fresh and green by a fountain with its spark 
ling jet of water. A student with book in hand was seated on a 
stone bench, partly reading, partly meditating on the movements 
of two or three trim nursery maids with their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab who had suddenly come upon an oasis 
amid the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees the quiet 
and coolness of the place soothed my nerves, and refreshed my 
spirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hard by, to a very ancient 
chapel, with a low-browed Saxon portal of massive and rich 
architecture. The interior was circular and lofty, and lighted 
from above. Around were monumental tombs of ancient date, 
on which were extended the marble effigies of warriors in armor. 
Some had the hands devoutly crossed upon the breast ; others 
grasped the pommel of the sword, menacing hostility even in the 
tomb ! — while the crossed legs of several indicated soldiers of the 
Faith who had been on crusades to the Holy Land. 

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, strange- 
ly situated in the very centre of sordid traffic ; and I do not know 
a more impressive lesson for the man of the world than thus sud- 
denly to turn aside from the highway of busy money-seeking life, 
and sit down among these shadowy sepulchres, where all is twi- 
light, dust, and forgetfulness. 

In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered another 
of these relics of a " foregone world " locked up in the heart of 
the city. I had been wandering for some time through dull 
monotonous streets, destitute of any thing to strike the eye or 
excite the imagination, when I beheld before me a gothic gate- 
way of mouldering antiquity. It opened into a spacious quadran- 
gle forming the court-yard of a stately gothic pile, the portal of 
which stood invitingly open. 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 



301 



It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was antiquity 
hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meeting no 
one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued on until 
I found myself in a great hall, with a lofty arched roof and oaken 
gallery, all of gothic architecture. At one end of the hall was 
an enormous fireplace, with wooden settles on each side ; at the 
other end was a raised platform, or dais, the seat of state, above 
which was the portrait of a man in antique garb, with a long 
robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet and 
seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm, was, that I had 
not met with a human being since I had passed the threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess of 
a large bow window, which admitted a broad flood of yellow sun- 
shine, checkered here and there by tints from panes of colored 
glass ; while an open casement let in the soft summer air. Here, 
leaning my head on my hand, and my arm on an old oaken table, 
I indulged in a sort of reverie about what might have been the 
ancient uses of this edifice. It had evidently been of monastic 
origin ; perhaps one of those collegiate establishments built of 
yore for the promotion of learning, where the patient monk, in 
the ample solitude of the cloister, added page to page and volume 
to volume, emulating in the productions of his brain the magni- 
tude of the pile he inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panneled door 
in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, and a number 
of gray-headed old men, clad in long black cloaks, came forth one 
by one; proceeding in that manner through the hall, without 
uttering a word, each turning a pale face on me as he passed, and 
disappearing throuojh a door at the lower end. 



302 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their black 
cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style of this most 
venerable and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts of the 
departed years, about which I had been musing, were passing in 
review before me. Pleasing myself with such fancies, I set out, 
in the spirit of romance, to explore what I pictured to myself a 
realm of shadows, existing in the very centre of substantial 
realities. i 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts and \ 
corridors and dilapidated cloisters, for the main edifice had many 
additions and dependencies, built at various times and in various 
styles ; in one open space a number of boys, who evidently be- 
longed to the establishment, were at their sports ; but every where i 
I observed those mysterious old gray men in black mantles, some- i 
times sauntering alone, sometimes conversing in groups : they ap- 
peared to be the pervading genii of the place. I now called to ! 
mind what I had read of certain colleges in old times, where I 
judicial astrology, geomancy, necromancy, and other forbidden j 
and magical sciences were taught. Was this an establishment \ 
of the kind, and were these black-cloaked old men really pro- | 
fessors of the black art ? ! 

These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye i 

glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of strange and j 

uncouth objects ; implements of savage warfare ; strange idols 

and stuffed alligators ; bottled serpents and monsters decorated 

the mantelpiece ; while on the high tester of an old-fashioned | 

bedstead grinned a human skull, flanked on each side by a j 

dried cat. I 

! 
I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic chamber, i 

which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer, when I was I 



LONDON ANTIQUES. 



303 



startled at beholding a liuman countenance staring at me from a 
dusky corner. It was that of a small, shriveled old man, with 
thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray wiry projecting eyebrows. I 
at first doubted whether it were not a mummy curiously pre- 
served, but it moved, and I saw that it was alive. It was another 
of these black-cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint 
physiognomy, his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister ob- 
jects by which he was surrounded, I began to persuade myself 
that I had come upon the arch mago, who ruled over this magical 
fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited me to 
enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how did I know 
whether a wave of his wand might not metamorphose me into 
some strange monster, or conjure me into one of the bottles on 
his mantelpiece ? He proved, however, to be any thing but a 
conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon dispelled all the magic and 
mystery with which I had enveloped this antiquated pile and its 
no less antiquated inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the centre of an 
ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and decayed house- 
holders, with which was connected a school for a limited number 
of boys. It was founded upwards of two centuries since on an 
old monastic establishment, and retained somewhat of the con- 
ventual air and character. The shadowy line of old men in black 
mantles who had passed before me in the hall, and whom I had 
elevated into magi, turned out to be the pensioners returning 
from morning service in the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities whom I had 
made the arch magician, had been for six years a resident of the 
place, and had decorated this final nestling place of his old age with 



304 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



relics and rarities picked up in the course of his life. According 
to his own account, he had been somewhat of a traveler; having 
been once in France, and very near making a visit to Holland. 
He regretted not having visited the latter country, " as then he 
might have said he had been there." — He was evidently a trav- 
eler of the simple kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions ; kjeeping aloof, as I 
found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief associates 
were a blind man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both which 
languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant ; and a broken-down 
gentleman who had run through a fortune of forty thousand 
pounds left him by his father, and ten thousand pounds, the mar- 
riage portion of his wufe. Little Hallum semed to consider it an 
indubitable sign of gentle blood as well as of lofty spirit to be able 
to squander such enormous sums. 

P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into which I 
have thus beguiled the reader is what is called the Charter 
House, originally the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, on 
the remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, being 
one of those noble charities set on foot by individual munificence, 
and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity of ancient times 
amidst the modern changes and innovations of London. Here 
eighty broken-down men, who have seen better days, are pro- 
vided, in their old age, with food, clothing, fuel, and a yearly 
allowance for private expenses. They dine together as did the 
monks of old, in the hall which had been the refectory of the 
original convent. Attached to the establishment is a school for 
forty-four boys. 

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speaking 



LONDON ANTiaUES. 



305 



of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, "They 
are not to intermeddle with any business touching the affairs of 
the hospital, but to attend only to the service of God, and take 
thankfully what is provided for them, without muttering, mur- 
muring, or grudging. None to wear weapon, long hair, colored 
boots, spurs or colored shoes, feathers in their hats, or any ruffian- 
like or unseemly apparel, but such as becomes hospital men to 
wear." "And in truth," adds Stow, "happy are they that 
are so taken from the cares and sorrows of the world, and fixed 
in so good a place as these old men are ; having nothing to care 
for, but the good of their souls, to serve God and to live in 
brotherly love." 



For the amusement of such as have been interested by the 
preceding sketch, taken down from my own observation, and who 
may wish to know a little more about the mysteries of London, I 
subjoin a modicum of local history, put into my hands by an odd- 
looking old gentleman in a small brown wig and a snuff-colored 
coat, with whom I became acquainted shortly after my visit to the 
Charter House. I confess I was a little dubious at first, whether 
it was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed off upon 
inquiring travelers like myself; and which have brought our 
general character for veracity into such unmerited reproach. 
On making proper inquiries, however, I have received the most 
satisfactory assurances of the author's probity ; and, indeed, have 
been told that " he is actually engaged in a full and particular 
account of the very interesting region in which he resides ; of 
which the following may be considered merely as a foretaste. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 



What I write is most true * * * * I have a whole booke of cases lying by me, which 
if J should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow beU) would be 
out of charity with me. 

Nashe. 



In the centre of the great city of London lies a small neighbor- 
hood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very- 
venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of 
Little Britain. Christ Church School and St. Bartholomew's 
Hospital bound it on the west ; Smithfield and Long Lane on 
the north ; Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the sea, divides it 
from the eastern part of the city ; whilst the yawning gulf of 
BuU-and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane, and the 
regions of Newgate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and 
designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the 
intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave- 
Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in 
ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As Lon- 
don increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, 
and trade creeping on at their heels, took possession of their 
deserted abodes. For some time Little Britain became the great 
mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific race 



308 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



of booksellers : these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating 
beyond the great strait of Newgate Street, settled down in Pater- 
noster Row and St. Paul's Church- Yard, where they continue to 
increase and multiply even at the present day. 

But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears 
traces of its former splendor. There are several houses ready to 
tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with 
old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and 
fishes ; and fruits and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist 
to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains 
of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but 
which have in latter days been subdivided into several tenements. 
Here may often be found the family of a petty tradesman, with 
its trumpery furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated 
finery, in great rambling time-stained apartments, with fretted 
ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. The 
lanes and courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so 
grand a scale, but, like your small ancient gentry, sturdily main- 
taining their claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable 
ends to the street ; great bow windows, with diamond panes set 
in lead, grotesque carvings, and low arched door-ways.* 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed 
several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second 
floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting-room 
is an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and set off with 
a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular respect 
for three or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered with tar- 

* It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has in- 
cluded, in his general title of Little Britain, many jf those little lanes and 
courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 309 



nished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen better days, 
and have doubtless figured in some of the old palaces of Little 
Britain. They seem to me to keep together, and to look down 
with sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors; 
as I have seen decayed gentry carry a high head among the ple- 
beian society with which they were reduced to associate. The 
whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow window ; 
on the panes of which are recorded the names of previous occu- 
pants for many generations, mingled with scraps of very indiJQfer- 
ent gentleman-like poetry, written in characters which I can 
scarcely decipher, and which extol the charms of many a beauty 
of Little Britain, who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and 
passed away. As I am an idle personage, with no apparent occu- 
pation, and pay my bill regularly every week, I am looked upon 
as the only independent gentleman of the neighborhood ; and, 
being curious to learn the internal state of a community so appa- 
rently shut up within itself, I have managed to work my way into 
all the concerns and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the city; 
the strong-hold of true John BuUism. It is a fragment of London 
as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. 
Here flourish in great preservation many of the holiday games 
and customs of yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pan- 
cakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and 
roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send love-letters on Valentine's 
Day, burn the pope on the fifth of November, and kiss all the 
girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and plum- 
pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, and port and 
sherry maintain their grounds as the only true English wines ; all 
others being considered vile outlandish beverages. 



310 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



Little Britain has its long catalogue of cit}'^ wonders, which 
its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world ; such as the 
great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls ; 
the figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock ; the Monu- 
ment ; the lions in the Tower ; and the wooden giants in Guild- 
hall. They still believe in dreams and fortune-telling, and an old 
woman that lives in BuU-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable sub- 
sistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good 
husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by comets 
and eclipses ; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked 
upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There are even 
many ghost stories current, particularly concerning the old man- 
sion-houses ; in several of which it is said strange sights are 
sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bottomed 
wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, 
hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and down the 
great waste chambers, on moonlight nights ; and are supposed to 
be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of 
the most important of the former is a tall, dry old gentleman, of 
the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He 
has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities, and projections ; 
with a brown circle round each eye, hke a pair of horn spectacles. 
He is much thought of by the old women, who consider him as a 
kind of conjurer, because he has two or three stuffed alligators 
hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a 
great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much given to 
pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earth- 
quakes, and volcanic eruptions ; which last phenomena he considers 
as signs of the times. He has always some dismal tale of the 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 311 



kind to deal out to his customers, with their doses ; and thus at 
the same time puts both soul and body into an uproar. He is a 
great believer in omens and predictions ; and has the prophecies 
of Robert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No man can 
make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day ; 
and he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his cus- 
tomers and disciples until they were nearly frightened out of their 
wits. He has lately got hold of popular legend or prophecy, on 
which he has been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying 
current among the ancient sibyls, who treasure up these things, 
that when the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook 
hands with the dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful 
events would take place. This strange conjunction, it seems, has 
as strangely come to pass. The same architect has been engaged 
lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the 
steeple of Bow Church ; and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the 
grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his work- 
shop. 

"Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may go 
star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is 
a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes, 
which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrologers." 
Since these portentous weather-cocks have thus laid their heads 
together, wonderful events had already occurred. The good old 
king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty-two years, had all 
at once given up the ghost ; another king had mounted the throne; 
a royal duke had died suddenly — another, in France, had been 
murdered ; there had been radical meetings in all parts of the 
kingdom ; the bloody scenes at Manchester ; the great plot in Cato 
Street ; — and, above all, the queen had returned to England ! All 



312 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



these sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme with a myste- 
rious look, and a dismal shake of the head ; and being taken with 
his drugs, and associated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed 
sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title- 
page of tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the 
minds of the people of Little Britain. They shake their heads 
whenever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never 
expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which in 
old times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of Whitting- 
ton and his Cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheesemon- 
ger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family mansions, 
and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in the midst 
of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed he is a man of no little 
standing and importance ; and his renown extends through Hug- 
gin Lane, and Lad Lane, and even unto Aldermanbury. His 
opinion is very much taken in affairs of state, having read the 
Sunday papers for the last half century, together with the Gen- 
tleman's Magazine, Rapin's History of England, and the Naval 
Chronicle. His head is stored with invaluable maxims which 
have borne the test of time and use for centuries. It is his firm 
opinion that " it is a moral impossible," so long as England is 
true to herself, that any thing can shake her : and he has much 
to say on the subject of the national debt ; which, somehow or 
other, he proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. He 
passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain, 
until of late years, when, having become rich, and grown into the 
dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and see 
the world. He has therefore made several excursions to Hamp- 
stead, Highgate, and other neighboring towns, where he has 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 



313 



passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis 
through a telescope, and endeavoring to descry the steeple of St. 
Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth Street 
but touches his hat as he passes ; and he is considered quite a 
patron at the coach-office of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's 
Church-yard. His family have been very urgent for him to make 
an expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of those new 
gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself too ad- 
vanced in life to undertake sea-voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and 
party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence of two rival 
" Burial Societies " being set up in the place. One held its meet- 
ing at the Swan and Horse Shoe, and was patronized by the 
cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock and Crown, under the 
auspices of the apothecary : it is needless to say that the latter 
was the most flourishing. I have passed an evening or two at 
each, and have acquired much valuable information, as to the 
best mode of being buried, the comparative merits of church- 
yards, together with divers hints on the subject of patent-iron 
coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its bearings as 
to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account of their dura- 
bility. The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily died 
of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing themes of con- 
troversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely solicitous 
of funereal honors and of lying comfortably in their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite a 
different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good-humor 
over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little 
old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the name of 
Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half-moon, with 

14 



314 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



a most seductive bunch of grapes. The whole edifice is covered 
with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; such 
as "Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire," "Wine, Rum, and 
Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, etc." This 
indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from time 
immemorial. It has always been in the family of the WagstafFs, 
so that its history is tolerably preserved by the -present landlord. 
It was much frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the 
reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the wits 
of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff principally 
prides himself upon is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his noc- 
turnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his 
famous walking-staff. This however is considered as rather a 
dubious and vainglorious boast of the landlord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by 
the name of " the Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They abound 
in old catches, glees, and choice stories, that are traditional in the 
place, and not to be met with in any other part of the nietropoHs. 
There is a mad-cap undertaker who is inimitable at a merry song ; 
but the life of the club, and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, 
is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were all wags before 
him, and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and 
jokes, which go with it from generation to generation as heir- 
looms. He is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, 
a red face, with a moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair 
beliind At the opening of every club night he is called in to 
sing his " Confession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking 
trowl from Gammer Gurton's Needle. He sings it, to be sure, 
with many variations, as he received it from his father's lips ; for 
it has been a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 



315 



Grapes ever since it was written : nay, he affirms that his prede- 
cessors have often had the honor of singing it before the nobility 
and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Little Britain was in 
all its glory.* 

* As mine host of the Half-Moon's Confession of Faith may not be familiar 
to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Lit- 
tle Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would observe, that the 
whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and 
clattering of pewter pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate, 

My stomacke is not good. 
But sure I thiiike that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuiF my skyn so full within, 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare. 

Booth foote and hand go colde, 
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe. 

Whether it be new or olde. 



Cliorits. 



I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste, 

And a crab laid in the fyre ; 
A little breade shall do me steade, 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe. 

Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 
I am 80 wrapt and throwly lapt 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc 



316 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, the 
shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the 
choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue from 
this jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined with lis- 
teners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a confec- 
tioner's window, or snuffing up the steams of a cook-shop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir and 
sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew's fair, and 
the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the fair, which is 
held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is nothing going 
on but gossiping and gadding about. The late quiet streets of 



Chorus. 



And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 

Loveth well good ale to seeke. 
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 

The teares run downe her cheeke. 
Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle. 

Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte 

Of this joly good ale and olde. 
Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



Clwrus. 



Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe. 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse. 

Good ale doth bring men to ; 
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles. 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God save the lyves of them and their wives. 

Whether they be yonge or olde. 
Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 



317 



Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of strange figures 
and faces ; every tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The fiddle 
and • the song are heard from the tap-room, morning, noon, and 
night ; and at each window may be seen some group of boon 
companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, 
and tankard in hand, fondling, and prosing, and singing maudlin 
songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum of private 
families, which I must say is rigidly kept up at other times among 
my neighbors, is no proof against this Saturnalia. There is no 
such thing as keeping maid-servants within doors. Their brains 
are absolutely set madding with Punch and the Puppet Show ; 
the Flying Horses ; Signior Polito ; the Fire-Eater ; the cele- 
brated Mr. Paap ; and the Irish Giant. The children too lavish 
all their holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the 
house with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny- 
whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The 
Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain 
as the greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach with six horses 
as the summit of human splendor ; and his procession, with all 
the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train, as the grandest of earthly 
pageants. How they exult in the idea, that the King himself 
dare not enter the city, without first knocking at the gate of 
Temple Bar, and asking permission of the Lord Mayor : for if he 
did, heaven and earth ! there is no knowing what might be the 
consequence. The man in armor who rides before the Lord 
Mayor, and is the city champion, has orders to cut down every 
body that offends against the dignity of the city ; and then there 
is the little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at 
the window of the state coach, and holds the city sword, as long 



318 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



as a pike-staff — Odd's blood! If he once draws that sword. 
Majesty itself is not safe ! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the 
good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an 
effectual barrier against all interior foes ; and as to foreign inva- 
sion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the Tower, 
call in the train bands, and put the standing army of Beef-eaters 
under arms, and he may bid defiance to the world ! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its 
own opinions. Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart 
to this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with 
considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy 
John Bullism were garnered up, like seed corn, to renew the 
national character, when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I 
have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony that prevailed 
throughout it ; for though there might now and then be a few 
clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheesemonger 
and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial 
societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon passed 
away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted with a shake 
of the hand, and never abused each other except behind their 
backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at 
which I have been present; where we played at All-Fours, 
Pope-Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games; 
and where we sometimes had a good old English country dance 
to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. Once a year also the 
neighbors would gather together and go on a gipsy party to 
Epping Forest. It would have done any man's heart good to 
see the merriment that took place here as we banqueted on the 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 319 



grass under the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts 
of laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry under- 
taker ! After dinner, too, the young folks would play at blind- 
man's-buff and hide-and-seek ; and it was amusing to see them 
tangled among the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now 
and then squeak from among the bushes. The elder folks would 
gather round the cheesemonger and the apothecary, to hear them 
talk politics ; for they generally brought out a newspaper in their 
pockets, to pass away time in the country. They would now and 
then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument ; but their disputes 
were always adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella 
maker in a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending the 
subject, managed somehow or other to decide in favor of both 
parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, 
are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innovation 
creep in ; factions arise ; and families now and then spring up, 
whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confu- 
sion. Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain 
been grievously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners 
threatened with total subversion, by the aspiring family of a 
retired butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most 
thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs were 
the belles of Little Britain, and every body was pleased when Old 
Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop, and put his name 
on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of 
the Miss Lambs had the honor of being a lady in attendance on 
the Lady Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on which occasion 
she wore three towering ostrich feathers on her head. The 



320 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



family never got over it ; they were immediately smitten with a 
passion for high life ; set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of 
gold lace round the errand boy's hat, and have been the talk and 
detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. They could 
no longer be induced to play at Pope- Joan or blindman's-buff ; 
they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had 
ever heard of in Little Britain ; and they took to reading novels, 
talking bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother 
too, who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and 
a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts ; and he con- 
founded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the 
opera, and the Edinburgh Review. 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which 
they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; but they had 
a great deal of genteel company from Theobald's Road, Red-lion 
Square, and other parts towards the west. There were several 
beaux of their brother's acquaintance from Gray's Lm Lane and 
Hatton Garden ; and not less than three Aldermen's ladies with 
their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or forgiven. All 
Little Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of whips, the 
lashing of miserable horses, and the rattling and jingling of hack- 
ney coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen 
popping their night- caps out at every window, watching the crazy 
vehicles rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, 
that kept a look-out from a house just opposite the retired butch- 
er's, and scanned and criticised every one that knocked at the 
door. 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole 
neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say to 
the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engage- 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 



331 



mente with her quality acquaintance, would give little humdrum 
tea junketings to some of her old cronies, " quite," as she would 
say, " in a friendly way ;" and it is equally true that her invita- 
tions were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the 
contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted with 
the music of the Miss Lambs, who would condescend to strum an 
Irish melody for them on the piano ; and they would listen with 
wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plun- 
ket's family, of Portsoken-ward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the 
rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their 
consciences, and averted the reproaches of their confederates, 
by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation every thing that 
had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all to pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be made fashiona- 
ble was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite of 
the meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with 
the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe-brush, and a 
broad face mottled like his own beef. It was in vain that the 
daughters always spoke of him as " the old gentleman," addressed 
him as " papa," in tones of infinite softness, and endeavored to 
coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly 
habits. Do what they might, there was no keeping down the 
butcher. His sturdy nature would break through all their glozings. 
He had a hearty vulgar good humor that was irrepressible. His 
very jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder ; and he persisted 
in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock, 
and having a " bit of sausage with his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his 
family. He found his old comrades gradually growing cold and 
civil to him ; no longer laughing at his jokes ; and now and then 

14* 



322 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



throwing out a fling at " some people," and a hint about " quality 
binding." This both nettled and perplexed the honest butcher ; 
and his wife and daughters, with the consummate policy of the 
shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, at length 
prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon's pipe and tankard at 
WagstafF's ; to sit after dinner by himself, and take his pint of 
port — a liquor he detested — and to nod in his chair in solitary and 
dismal gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the streets 
in French bonnets, with unknown beaux ; and talking and laugh- 
ing so loud that it distressed the nerves of every good lady within 
hearing. They even went so far as to attempt patronage, and 
actually induced a French dancing-master to set up in the neigh- 
borhood ; but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and 
did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle 
and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such precipitation, that he 
absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fiery 
indignation on the part of the community was merely the over- 
flowing of their zeal for good old English manners, and their hor- 
ror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent contempt they were 
so vociferous in expressing, for upstart pride, French fashions, and 
the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the 
infection had taken hold ; and that my neighbors, after condemn- 
ing, were beginning to follow their example. I overheard my 
landlady importuning her husband to let their daughters have one 
quarter at French and music, and that they might take a few les- 
sons in quadrille. I even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, 
no less than five French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss 
Lambs, parading about Little Britain. 



LITTLE BRITAIN, 323 



I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die 
away; that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood; 
might die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices ; and 
that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the commu- 
nity. But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oilman 
died, and left a widow with a large jointure and a family of buxom 
daughters. The young ladies had long been repining in secret at 
the parsimony of a prudent father, , which kept down all their 
elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no longer restrained, 
broke out into a blaze, and they openly took the field against the 
family of the butcher. It is true that the Lambs, having had the 
first start, had naturally an advantage of them in the fashionable 
career. They could speak a little bad French, play the piano, 
dance quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances; but the 
Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs appeared 
with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, 
and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the 
Trotters Avere sure not to be behindhand : and though they might 
not boast of as good company, yet they had double the number, 
and were twice as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided itself into fashiona- 
ble factions, under the banners of these two families. The old 
games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely dis- 
carded ; there is no such thing as getting up an honest country 
dance ; and on my attempting to kiss a young lady under the mis- 
tletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed ; the Miss Lambs 
having pronounced it " shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also 
broken out as to the most fashionable part of little Britain ; the 
Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the 
Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. 



334 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dis- 
sensions, hke the great empire whose name it bears ; and what 
will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, with all 
his talent at prognostics, to determine ; though I apprehend that it 
will terminate in the total downfall of genuine John Bulhsm. 

The immecliate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. Be- 
ing a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle good- 
for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only gentleman 
by profession in the place. I stand therefore in high favor with 
both parties, and have to hear all their cabinet counsels and 
mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree with the 
ladies on all occasions, I have committed myself most horribly 
with both parties, by abusing their opponents. I might manage 
to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly accommodating 
one, but I cannot to my apprehension — ^if the Lambs and Trot- 
ters ever come to a reconciliation, and compare notes, I am 
ruined ! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and 
am actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, 
where old English manners are still kept up ; where French is 
neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken ; and where there are no 
fashionable families of retired tradesmen. This found, I will, 
like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old house about 
my ears ; bid a long, though a son owful adieu to my present 
abode, and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trotters 
to divide the distracted empire of Little Britain. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 



Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream ; 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 

Garrick. 



To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which 
he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of some- 
thing like independence and territorial consequence, when, after a 
weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into 
slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world 
without go as it may ; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has 
the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very 
monarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the 
poker his sceptre, and the little parlor, some twelve feet square, 
his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched 
from the midst of the uncertainties of life ; it is a sunny moment 
gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day : and he who has advanced 
some way on the pilgrimage of existence knows the importance 
of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. " Shall 
I not take mine ease in mine inn ?" thought I, as I gave the fire 
a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look 
about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 



326 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing through my 
mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church 
in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and I 
a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with 
a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest 
hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion 
was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, like a. prudent potentate, ; 
to avoid being deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide-Book | 
under my arm, as a pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt i 
all night of Shakspeare, the jubilee, and David Garrick. i 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings i 
which we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about the 
middle of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly 
given way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; and a mild | 
air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life into | 
nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst forth into fra- i 
grance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first 
visit was to the house where Shakspeare was born, and where, 
according to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft of ' 
wool-combing. It is a small mean-looking edifice of wood and 
plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to delight ! 
in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid i 
chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in every lan- 
guage, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from the j 
prince to the peasant ; and present a simple, but striking instance | 
of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to the great J 
poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red 
face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 327 



artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly- 
dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics 
with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There 
was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which Shak- 
speare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. There, too, was 
his tobacco-box ; which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir 
Walter Ealeigh ; the sword also with which he played Hamlet ; 
and the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered 
"Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! There was an ample supply also 
of Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraor- 
dinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross ; 
of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shak- 
speare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small gloomy 
chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may 
many a time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolv- 
ing spit with all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, 
listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth 
church-yard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome 
times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one 
that visits the house to sit : whether this be done with the hope of 
imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say, 
I merely mention the fact ; and mine hostess privately assured 
me, that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of 
devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed at least once in 
three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the history of this 
extraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile 
nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the 
Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some few years since to a 



328 THE SKETCH BOOK, 

northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back 
again to the old chimney corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing 
to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I 
am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anec- 
dotes of goblins and great men ; and would advise all travelers 
who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to 
us, whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can per- 
suade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm 
of the reality? There is nothing like resolute good-humored 
credulity in these matters ; and on this occasion I went even so 
far as willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal 
descent from the poet, when, unluckily for my faith, she put into 
my hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in 
her consanguinity at defiance. 

From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought me 
to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, 
a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly orna- 
mented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered 
point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the 
town. Its situation is quiet and retired : the river runs murmur- 
ing at the foot of the church-yard, and the elms which grow upon 
its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue 
of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to 
form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate 
of the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown 
with grass ; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into 
the earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise tinted 
the reverend old building. Small birds have built their nests 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 329 

among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a con- 
tinual flutter and chirping; and rooks are sailing and cawing 
about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed 




^Jf CrODiOt.Bel 



sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key of 
the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty 
years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, with 
the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of his legs 
for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, loo]s:ing out 
upon the Avon and its bordering meadows ; and was a picture of 
that neatness, order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest 
dwellings in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone 
floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. 
Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. 



330 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



On an old oaken table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family 
Bible and prayer-book, and the drawer contained the family 
library, composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. 
An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furniture, 
ticked on the opposite side of the room ; with a bright warming- 
pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled 
Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, -as usual, was wide 
and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In 
one corner sat the old man's grand-daughter sewing, a pretty 
blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner was a superannuated 
crony, whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, 
I found, had been his companion from childhood. They had 
played together in infancy ; they had w^orked together in man- 
hood; they were now tottering about and gossiping away the" 
evening of life ; and in a short time they will probably be buried 
together in the neighboring church-yard. It is not often that we 
see two streams of existence running thus evenly and tranquilly 
side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom scenes " of life that 
they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard 
from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing new to 
impart. The long interval during w^hich Shakspeare's writings 
lay in comparative neglect has spread its shadow over his his- 
tory ; and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely any thing remains 
to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpen- 
ters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and 
they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who 
superintended the arrangements, and who, according to the sex- 
ton, was " a short punch man, very lively and bustling." John 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 



331 



Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakspeare's mulberry 
tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a 
sovereign quickener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspeare house. 
John Ange shook his head Avhen I mentioned her valuable and 
inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly her remains of the 
mulberry tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to 
Shakspeare having been born in her house. I soon discovered 
that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to 
the poet's tomb ; the latter having comparatively but few visitors. 
Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, and mere peb- 
bles make the stream of truth diverge into different channels even 
at the fountain head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and 
entered by a gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved doors 
of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture 
and embellishments superior to those of most country churches. 
There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, 
over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners drop- 
ping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakspeare is in 
the chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms 
wave before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a 
short distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. 
A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There 
are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by him- 
self, and which have in them something extremely awful. If 
they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the 
quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and 
thouo-htful minds. 



332 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones. 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shak- 
speare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resem- 
blance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely-arched 
forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear indications of 
that cheerful, social disposition, by which he was as much charac- 
terized among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. 
The inscription mentions his age at the time of his decease — fifty- 
three years ; an untimely death for the world : for what fruit 
might not have been expected from the golden autumn of such a 
mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and 
flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its 
effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the 
bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at 
one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some laborers 
were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so 
as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one 
might have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed 
to meddle with his remains so awfully guarded by a malediction ; 
and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, 
should be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept 
watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished 
and the aperture closed again. He told me that he had made 
bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones ; 
nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the 
dust of Shakspeare. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 



333 



Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daughter, 
Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is 
a full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of usurious 
memory ; on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. 
There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell 
on any thing that is not connected with Shakspeare. His idea 
pervades the place ; the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. 
The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here in- 
dulge in perfect confidence : other traces of him may be false or 
dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As 
I trod the sounding pavement, there was something intense and 
thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakspeare 
were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I 
could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; and as I passed 
through the churchyard, I plucked a branch from one of the yew 
trees, the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, but 
I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys, at Charle- 
cot, and to ramble through the park where Shakspeare, in com- 
pany with some of the roysters of Stratford, committed his youth- 
ful offence of deer-stealing. In this hare-brained exploit we are 
told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, 
where he remained all night in doleful captivity. When brought 
into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have 
been galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his spirit as 
to produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the park gate 
at Charlecot.* 



* The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon :- 
A parliament member, a justice of peace. 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 



334 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so in- 
censed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the 
severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker. 
Shakspeare did not wait to brave the united puissance of a knight 
of the shire and a country attorney. He forthwith abandoned 
the pleasant banks of the Avon and his paternal trade ; wandered 
away to London ; became a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an 
actor ; and, finally, wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the 
persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent 
wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal poet. He 
retained, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment 
of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writings ; 
but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is 
Baid to be the original of Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly 
fixed upon him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, like 
those of the knight, had white luces* in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften 
and explain away this early transgression of the poet ; but I look 
upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situa- 
tion and turn of mind. Shakspeare, when young, had doubtless 
all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and 
undirected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally some- 

If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great ; 

Yet an asse in his state. 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate. 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it. 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 

* The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 335 



thing in it of the vagabond. Wlien left to itself it runs loosely 
and wildly, and delights in every thing eccentric and licentious. 
It is often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, whe- 
ther a natural genius shall turn out a great rogue or a great 
poet ; and had not Shakspeare's mind fortunately taken a literary 
bias, he might have as daringly transcended all civil, as he has all 
dramatic laws, 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like an 
unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was to be 
found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous characters ; 
that he associated with all the madcaps of the place, and was one 
of those unlucky urchins, at mention of whom old men shake 
their heads, and predict that they will one day eome to the gal- 
lows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was 
doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, 
and, as yet untamed, imagination, as something delightfully ad- 
venturous.* 

* A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his youthful 
days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the 
elder Ireland, and mentioned in his " Picturesque Views on the Avon." 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of Bed- 
ford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to meet, 
under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good 
ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. Among others, the 
people of Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their heads ; and 
in the number of the champions was Shakspeare, who, in spite of the proverb, 
that " they who drink beer will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff 
to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and 
sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carry them off the field. They had 
scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they were forced to lie 



'^^6 " THE SKETCH BOOK. 



The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still 
remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly 
interesting, from being connected with this whimsical but event- 
ful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house 
stood at little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, I 
resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely 
through some of those scenes from which Shakspeare must have 
derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English scenery 
is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of 
the weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the 
landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first 
awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over the 
senses ; to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the 
green spout and the tender blade : and the trees and shrubs, in 
their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of re- 
down under a crab-tree, where they passed the night. It is still standing, and 
goes by the name of Shakspeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed returning to 
Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drank with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

" The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, " still bear the epithets ihus 
given them : the people of Pebworth, are still famed for their skill on the pipe 
and tabor ; Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilborough ; and Grafton is 
famous for the poverty of its soil." 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 



337 



turning foliage and flower. The cold snow-drop, that little bor- 
derer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste white 
blossoms in the small gardens before the cottages. The bleat- 
ing of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from the fields. 
The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves and budding 
hedges ; the robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous 
wintry strain ; and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom 
of the meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pour- 
ing forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, 
mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck 
on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled 
with his music, it called to mind Shakspeare's exquisite little song 
in Cymbeline : 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that Hes. 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty bin. 

My lady sweet arise ! 



Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground : every 
thing is associated with the idea of Shakspeare. Every old cot- 
tage that I saw, I fancied into some rescirt of his boyhood, where 
he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and man- 
ners, and heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions which 
he has woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, 
we are told, it was a popular amusement in winter evenings " to 

15 



338 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, 
lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fai- 
ries, goblins, and friars."* 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and windings 
through a wide and fertile valley ; sometimes glittering from 
among willows, which fringed its borders ; sometimes disappear- 
ing among groves, or beneath green banks ; and sometimes ram- 
bling out into full view, and making an azure sweep round a 
slope of meadow-land. This beautiful bosom of country is called 
the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue 
hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening 
landscape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the 
Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off 
into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields, and under 
hedgerows to a private gate of the park ; there was a stile, how- 
ever, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; there being a public right 
of way through the grounds. I deUght in these hospitable estates, 
in which every one has a kind of property — at least as far as the 
footpath is concerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man 
to his lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus 



* Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these fire- 
side fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, 
urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, 
tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, change- 
hngs, incubus, Robin-goodfellow, the spoome, the mare, the man in the oke, 
the hell-waine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom 
Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own 
shadowes." 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 339 

to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recrea- 
tion. He breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously 
under the shade, as the lord of the soil ; and if he has not the 
privilege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at the 
same time, the trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, 
whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind 
sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed 
from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged 
through a long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the view 
but a distant statue ; and a vagrant deer stalkino; like a shadow 
across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues that has 
the effect of gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended 
similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long 
duration, and of having had their origin in a period of time with 
which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken 
also the long-settled dignity, and proudly-concentrated independ- 
ence of an ancient family ; and I have heard a worthy but 
aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous 
palaces of modern gentry, that " money could do much wdth stone 
and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there was no such thing as sud- 
denly building up an avenue of oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery^ 
and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Full- 
broke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of 
Shakspeare's commentators have supposed he derived his noble 
forest meditations of Jaques, and the enchanting woodland pic- 
tures in " As you like it." It is in lonely wanderings through 
such scenes, that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of 



340 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and 
majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and 
rapture ; vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking 
upon it; and we revel in a mute and almost incommunicable 
luxury of thought. It was in some such mood, and perhaps 
under one of those very trees before me, which threw their broad 
shades over the grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, 
that the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little song 
which breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary : 

Under the green wood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note, 
Come hither, come hither, come nither. 

Here shall he see 

No enemy. 
But winter and rough weather. 



I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building 
of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the gothic style of Queen 
Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. 
The exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may 
be considered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy coun- 
try gentleman oi» those days. A great gateway opens from the 
park into a kind of court-yard in front of the house, ornamented 
with a grassplot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in 
imitation of the ancient barbacan ; being a kind of out-post, and 
flanked by towers ; though evidently for mere ornament, instead 
of defence. The front of the house is completely in the old 
style ; with stone-shafted casements, a great bow-window of 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 



341 



heavy stone-work, and a portal with armorial bearings over it, 
carved in stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon 
tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weather-cock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just 
at the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which sweeps down from the 
rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing 
upon its borders ; and swans were sailing majestically upon its 
bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old mansion, I called 
to mind Falstaff 's encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the 
affected indifference and real vanity of the latter : 



" Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
" Shallow. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all. Sir John: — 
marry, good air." 



Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion in 
the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness and soli- 
tude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court-yard 
was locked ; there was no show of servants bustling about the 
place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer 
harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only sign of 
domestic life that I met with was a white cat, stealing with wary 
look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefa- 
rious expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of a 
scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn wall, as 
it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of 
poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial power 
which was so strenuously manifested in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found my 
way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to the 



342 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old house- 
keeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness of her 
order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part 
has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes 
and modes of living : there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and the 
great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still 
retains much of the appearance it must have -had in the days of 
Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ; and at one end is 
a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons and trophies 
of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country gen- 
tleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a wide 
hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood 
fire, formerly the rallying-place of winter festivity. On the 
opposite side of the hall is the huge gothic bow-window, with 
stone shafts, which looks out upon the court-yard. Here are 
emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy 
family for many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was 
delighted to observe in the quarterings the three white luces, by 
which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified with that 
of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the 
Merry Wives of Windsor, where the Justice is in a rage with 
Falstaff for having " beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken 
into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences of himself 
and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the 
family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shallow to be 
a caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas. 



" Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star-Chamber mat- 
ter of it ; if he were twenty John FalstafFs, he shall not abuse Sir Robert 
Shallow, Esq. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 



343 



Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

Slender. Ay, and ratalorvm too, and a gentleman born, master parson ; 
who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, 
Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three hundred 
years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and all his ances- 
tors that come after him may ; they may give the dozen white luces in their 
coat.***** 

Shallow. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no fear of Got 
in a riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to 
hear a riot ; take your vizaments in that. 

Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it!" 



Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir Peter ' 
Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of 
Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her head as she 
pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady had been 
sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of 
the family estate, among which was that part of the park where 
Shakspeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands 
thus lost had not been entirely regained by the family even at the 
present day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to confess 
that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a great 
painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas 
Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in the latter part of 
Shakspeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vindic- 
tive knight himself but the housekeeper assured me that it was 



344 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



his son ; the only Hkeness extant of the former being an effigy 
upon his tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet of Charle- 
cot.* The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and man- 
ners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet; 
white shoes with roses in them ; and has a peaked yellow, or, as 
Master Slender would say, " a cane-colored beard." His lady is 
seated on the opposite side of the picture, in wide ruff and long 
stomacher, and the children have a most venerable stiffness and 
formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the 
family group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in the foreground, 
and one of the children holds a bow ; — all intimating the knight's 

* This effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in complete 
armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is the following 
inscription ; which, if really composed by her husband, places him quite above 
the intellectual level of Master Shallow : 

Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sr Thomas Lucy of Charlecot in 
ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton 
in ye county of Worcester Esquire who departed out of this wretched world to 
her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 
1595 and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true and faythful 
servant of her good God, never detected of any cryme or vice. In religion 
most sounde, in love to her husband most faythful and true. In friendship 
most constant ; to what in trust was committed unto her most secret. In wis- 
dom excelling. In governing of her house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of 
God that did converse with her moste rare and singular. A great maintayner 
of hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her betters ; misliked of none unless of 
the envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with 
virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee Uved 
most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe 
what hath byn written to be true. 

Thomas Lucye. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 345 



skill in hunting, hawking, and archery — so indispensable to an 
accomplished gentleman in those days.* 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had 
disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow-chair 
of carved oak, in which the country squire of former days Avas 
wont to sw^ay the sceptre of empire over his rural domains ; and 
in which it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat en- 
throned in awful state w^hen the recreant Shakspeare was brought 
before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own entertain- 
ment, I pleased myself with the idea that this very hall had been 
the scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morning after 
his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural poten- 
tate, surrounded by his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue- 
coated serving-men Avith their badges ; while the luckless culprit 
was brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody of game- 
keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout 
of country clow^ns. I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids 
peeping from the half-opened doors ; while from the gallery the 
fair daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing the 

* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time,obsei-ves, " his 
housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, and serving-men 
attendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of 
his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceed- 
ingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with 
his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " he 
kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger ; and had 
hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly 
strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and 
terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, 
hounds, and spaniels. 

15* 



346 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



youthful prisoner with that pity " that dwells in womanhood." — 
Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus trembling 
before the brief authority of a country squire, and the sport of 
rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of princes, the theme 
of all tongues and ages, the dictator to the human mind, and was to 
confer immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon I 
I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and 
I felt inclined to visit the orchard and harbor where the justice 
treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a last year'^ 
pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of caraways ;" but I had 
already spent so much of the day in my rambHngs that I was 
obliged to give up any further investigations. When about to 
take my leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the house- 
keeper and butler, that I would take some refreshment : an 
instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we castle- 
hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it 
is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys inherits 
from his ancestors ; for Shakspeare, even in his caricature, makes 
Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as witness his press- 
ing instances to Falstaff. 

" By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night « * * I will not ex- 
cuse you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses shall not be admitted ; there is 
no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be excused * * *. Some pigeons, Davy ; 
a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and any pretty little tiny 
kickshaws, tell William Cook." 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind 
had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and 
characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually living 
among them. Every thing brought them as it were before my 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 



347 



eyes ; and as the door of the dining-room opened, I ahnost expected 
to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his 
favorite ditty ; 

" 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry shrove-tide !" 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the singular 
gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind 
over the very face of nature ; to give to things and places a 
charm and character not their own, and to turn this " working-day 
world" into a perfect fairy land. He is indeed the true en- 
chanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the 
imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shak- 
speare I had been walking all day in a complete delusion. I had 
surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which tinged 
every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been sur- 
rounded with fancied beings ; with mere airy nothings, conjured 
up by poetic power ; yet which, to me, had all the charm of 
reality. I had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak : had 
beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through 
the woodlands ; and, above all, had been once more present in 
spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries, from the 
august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle Master Slender and 
the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and blessino^s on 
the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with inno- 
cent illusions ; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures 
in my chequered path ; and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely 
hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused 
to contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried. 



I 



348 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



and could not but exult in the malediction, which has kept his 
ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor 
could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty com- 
panionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogi- 
uras of a titled multitude ? AVhat would a crowded corner in 
Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile, 
which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mauso- 
leum ! The solicitude about the grave may be but the offspring 
of an over-wrought sensibility ; but human nature is made up of 
foibles and prejudices ; and its best and tenderest affections are 
mingled with these factitious feelings. He who has sought re- 
nown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly 
favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no 
applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his na- 
tive place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and 
honor among his kindred and his early friends. And when the 
weary heart and failing head begin to warn him that the evening 
of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the 
mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his 
childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, 
when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast 
back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen 
that, before many years, he should return to it covered with re- 
nown ; that his name should become the boast and glory of his 
native place ; that his ashes should be religiously guarded as its 
most precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on which his 
eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day become 
the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the 
literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 



" I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him 
not to eat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not." 

Speech of an Indian Chief. 



There is something in the character and habits of the North 
American savage, taken in connection with the scenery over 
which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless forests, 
majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, wonder- 
fully striking and sublime. He is formed for the wilderness, as 
the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, simple, and 
enduring ; fitted to grapple with difficulties, and to support pri- 
vations. There seems but little soil in his heart for the sup- 
port of the kindly virtues ; and yet, if we would but take the 
trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism and habitual 
taciturnity, which lock up his character from casual observation, 
we should find him linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by 
more of those sympathies and affections than are usually ascribed 
to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America, 
in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged by the 
white men. They have been dispossessed of their hereditary 
possessions by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare : and 
their characters have been traduced by bigoted and interested 
writers. The colonist often treated them like leasts of the forest: 



350 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



and the author has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. 
The former found it easier to exterminate than to civilize ; the 
latter to vilify than to discriminate. The appellations of savage 
and pagan were deemed sufScient to sanction the hostilities of 
both ; and thus the poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted 
and defamed, not because they were guilty, but because they 
were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appre- 
ciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has too often 
been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has been regarded as 
a ferocious animal, whose life or death was a question of mere 
precaution and convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life 
when his own safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by impu- 
nity ; and little mercy is to be expected from him, when he feels 
the sting of the reptile and is conscious of the power to destroy. 

The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, exist 
in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned 
societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored to 
investigate and record the real characters and manners of the 
Indian tribes; the American government, too, has wisely and 
humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and forbearing 
spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud and injus- 
tice.* The current opinion of the Indian character, however, is 



* The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions to 
ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them the arts 
of civilization, and civil and religious knowledge. To protect them from the 
frauds of the white traders, no purchase of land from them by individuals is 
permitted ; nor is any person allowed to receive lands from them as a present, 
without the express sanction of government. These precautions are strictly 
enforced. 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 351 



too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes which infest the 
frontiers, and hang on the skirts of the settlements. These are 
too commonly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and 

\ enfeebled by the vices of society, without being benefited by its 

I civilization. That proud independence, which formed the main 
pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken down, 'and the whole 
moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and 

i debased by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed 
and daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their 

! enlightened neighbors. Society has advanced upon them like 

' one of those withering airs that will sometimes breed desolation 
over a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their strength, 
multiplied their diseases, and superinduced upon their original 
barbarity the low vices of artificial life. It has given them a 
thousand superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means 
of mere existence. It has driven before it the animals of the 
chase, who fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke of the 
settlement, and seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests and 
yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find the Indians on 
^r frontiers to be the mere wrecks and remnants of once powerful 
tribes, who have lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and 
sunk into precarious and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining 

I and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in savage 
life, corrodes their spirits, and blights every free and noble 
quality of their natures. They become drunken, indolent, feeble, 
thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the 

, settlements, among spacious dwellings replete with elaborate 
comforts, which only render them sensible of the comparative 
wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads its ample 
board before their eyes ; but they are excluded from the banquet 



352 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



Plenty revels over the fields ; but they are starving in the midst 
of its abundance : the whole wilderness has blossomed into a 
garden ; but they feel as reptiles that infest it. 

How different was their state while yet the undisputed lords 
of the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means of gratification 
within their reach. They saw every one round them sharing the 
same lot, enduring the same hardships, feeding on the same ali- 
ments, arrayed in the same rude garments. No roof then rose, 
but was open to the homeless stranger ; no smoke curled among 
the trees, but he was welcome to sit down by its fire and join the 
hunter in his repast. " For," says an old historian of New Eng- 
land, " their life is so void of care, and they are so loving also, 
that they make use of those things they enjoy as common goods, 
and are therein so compassionate, that rather than one should 
starve through want, they would starve all ; thus they pass their 
time merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content with 
their own, which some men esteem so meanly of" Such were 
the Indians whilst in the pride and energy of their primitive 
natures : they resembled those wild plants, which thrive best in 
the shades of the forest, but shrink from the hand of cultivation, 
and perish beneath the influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character, writers have been too 
prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggeration, 
instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. They have not 
sufficiently considered the peculiar circumstances in which the 
Indians have been placed, and the peculiar principles under which 
they have been educated. iSTo being acts more rigidly from rule 
than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated according to 
some general maxims early implanted in his mind. The moral 
laws that govern him are, to be sure, but few; but then he con- 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 



353. 



forms to them ail ; — tlie white man abounds in laws of religion, 
morals, and manners, but how many does he violate ? 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their 
disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness with 
which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to hos- 
tilities. The intercourse of the white men with the Indians, 
however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, and insult- 
ing. They seldom treat them with that confidence and frankness 
which are indispensable to real friendship ; nor is sufficient cau- 
tion observed not to offend against those feelings of pride or su- 
perstition, which often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker than 
mere considerations of interest. The solitary savage feels silently, 
but acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused over so wide a sur- 
face as those of the white man ; but they run in steadier and 
deeper channels. His pride, his affections, his superstitions, are 
all directed towards fewer objects ; but the wounds inflicted on 
them are proportionably severe, and furnish motives of hostility 
which we cannot sufficiently appreciate. "Where a community is 
also limited in number, and forms one great patriarchal family, 
as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of 
the whole ; and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instantane- 
ously diffused. One council fire is sufficient for the discussion 
and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the fighting 
men and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition combine to 
inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator awakens their 
martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a kind of religious des- 
peration, by the visions of the prophet and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising 
from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an 
old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The plan- 



354 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



ters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead at 
Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's 
mother of some skins with which it had been decorated. The 
Indians are remarkable for the reverence which they entertain 
for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed 
generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by 
chance they have been traveling in the vicinity, have been known 
to turn aside from the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accu- 
rate tradition, have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, 
buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of their tribe were 
anciently deposited ; and there have passed hours in silent medi- 
tation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, 
whose mother's tomb had been violated, gathered his men together, 
and addressed them in the following beautifully simple and pa- 
thetic harangue ; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an 
aifecting instance of filial piety in a savage. 

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath 
this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom 
is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, methought 
I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled ; and 
trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, ' Behold, my 
son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, 
the hands that lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou 
forget to take revenge of those wild people who have defaced my 
monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and 
honorable customs ? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the 
common people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth 
complain, and implores thy aid against this thievish people, who 
have newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, I shall not 
rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 



355 



vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to 
get some strength, and recollect my spirits that were fled, and de- 
termined to demand your counsel and assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to 
show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attribu- 
ted to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and gener- 
ous motives, which our inattention to Indian character and customs 
prevents our properly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their 
barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in policy 
and partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes called 
nations, were never so formidable in their numbers, but that the 
loss of several warriors was sensibly felt ; this was particularly 
the case when they had been frequently engaged in warfare ; and 
many an instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, that 
had long been formidable to its neighbors, has been broken up 
and driven away, by the capture and massacre of its principal 
fighting men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the 
victor to be merciless ; not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, 
as to provide for future security. The Indians had also the 
superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous nations, and preva- 
lent also among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who 
had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the captives. 
The prisoners, however, who are not thus sacrificed, are adopted 
into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated with 
the confidence and affection of relatives and friends ; nay, so hos- 
pitable and tender is their entertainment, that when the alterna- 
tive is offered them, they will often prefer to remain with their 
adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and the friends 
of their youth. 



356 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been 
heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was for- 
merly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been exas- 
perated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot but be 
sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient 
dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual destroy- 
ers of their race. They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries 
and indignities which they have individually suffered, and they 
are driven to madness and despair by the wide-spreading desola- 
tion, and the overwhelming ruin of European warfare. The 
whites have too frequently set them an example of violence, by 
burning their villages, and laying waste their slender means of 
subsistence : and yet they wonder that savages do not show mod- 
eration and magnanimity towards those who have left them 
nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacherous, 
because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to open 
force ; but in this they are fully justified by their rude code of 
honor. They are early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy ; the 
bravest Avarrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take 
every advantage of his foe : he triumphs in the superior craft and 
sagacity by which he has been enabled to surprise and destroy an 
enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone to subtilty than open 
valor, owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other 
animals. They are endowed with natural weapons of defence : 
with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but man has to 
depend on his superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, 
his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and when he per- 
versely turns his hostility against his fellow-man, he at first conti- 
nues the same subtle mode of warfare. 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 357 



The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to our 
enemy with the least harm to ourselves ; and this of course is to 
be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous courage which induces 
us to despise the suggestions of prudence, and to rush in the face 
of certain danger, is the offspring of society, and produced by 
education. It is honorable, because it is in fact the triumph of 
lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over 
those yearnings after personal ease and security, which society 
has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the fear 
of shame ; and thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the 
superior dread of an evil which exists but in the imagination. It 
has been cherished and stimulated also by various means. It 
has been the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. 
The poet and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splen- 
dors of fiction ; and even the historian has forgotten the sober 
gravity of narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhap- 
sody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been 
its reward : monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and 
opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's 
gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially excited, courage has 
risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism : and, 
arrayed in all the glorious "pomp and circumstance of war," 
this turbulent quality has even been able to eclipse many of those 
quiet, but invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the human 
character, and swell the tide of human happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of danger 
and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition of it. 
He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and 
adventure are congenial to his nature ; or rather seem necessary 
to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his existence, 



358 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by am- 
bush and surprisal, he is always prepared for fight, and lives with 
his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fearful single- 
ness through the solitudes of ocean ; — as the bird mingles among 
clouds and storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, across the 
pathless fields of air; — so the Indian holds his course, silent, 
solitary, but undaunted, through the boundless bosom of the wilder- 
ness. His expeditions may vie in distance and danger with the 
pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade of the knight-errant. 
He traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sick- 
ness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy lakes, those 
great inland seas, are no obstacles to his wanderings : in his light 
canoe of bark he sports, like a feather, on their waves, and darts, 
with the swiftness of an arrow, down the roaring rapids of the 
rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil 
and peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers 
of the chase : he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the 
panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders of the 
cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modem days can surpass the Indian in 
his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which he sus- 
tains its crudest affliction. Indeed we here behold him rishig 
superior to the white man, in consequence of his peculiar educa- 
tion. The latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon's mouth ; 
the former calmly contemplates its approach, and triumphantly 
endures it, amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes and 
the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in taunting 
his persecutors, and provoking their ingenuity of torture ; and as 
the devouring flames prey on his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks 
from the sinews, he raises his last song of triumph, breathing the 



TRAITS OP INDIAN CHARACTER. 



359 



defiance of an unconquered heart, and invoking the spirits of his 
fathers to witness that he dies without a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early historians 
have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives, 
some bright gleams occasionally break through, which throw a 
degree of melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are occa- 
sionally to be met with in the rude annals of the eastern provinces, 
which, though recorded with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, 
yet speak for themselves ; and will be dwelt on with applause and 
sympathy, when prejudice shall have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New 
England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried into 
the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the 
cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In one place we 
read of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the 
wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants 
shot down and slain in attempting to escape, " all being dispatched 
and ended in the course of an hour." After a series of similar 
transactions, "our soldiers," as the historian piously observes, 
" being resolved by God's assistance to make a final destruction 
of them," the unhappy savages being hunted from their homes 
and fortresses, and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty, but gal- 
lant band, the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their 
wives and children, took refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair; 
with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe, 
and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, 
they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, 
and preferred death to submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dismal 



360 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, 
their enemy " plied them with shot all the time, by which means 
many were killed and buried in the mire." In the darkness and 
fog that preceded the dawn of day some few broke through the 
besiegers and escaped into the woods : " the rest were left to the 
conquerors, of which many were killed in the swamp, like sullen 
dogs who would rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit 
still and be shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for 
mercy. When the day broke upon this handful of forlorn but 
dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, 
" saw several heaps of them sitting close together, upon whom 
they discharged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol bul- 
lets at a time, putting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs^ 
within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those that were found 
dead, many more were killed and sunk into the mire, and never 
were minded more by friend or foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without admir- 
ing the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness of 
spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught heroes, 
and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of human nature ? 
When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they found the 
senators clothed in their robes, and seated with stern tranquillity 
in their curule chairs ; in this manner they suffered death without 
resistance or even supplication. Such conduct was, in them, 
applauded as noble and magnanimous ; in the hapless Indian it 
was reviled as obstinate and sullen. How truly are we the 
dupes of show and circumstance ! How diff'erent is virtue, 
clothed in purple and enthroned in state, from virtue, naked and 
destitute, and perishing obscurely in a wilderness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The east- 



I 

TRAITS OP INDIAN CHARACTER. 361 . | 

ern tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests that sheltered 
them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them 
in the thickly-settled states of New England, excepting here and 
there the Indian name of a village or a stream. And such must, 
sooner or later, be the fate of those other tribes which skirt the 
frontiers, and have occasionally been inveigled from their forests 
to mingle in the wars of white men. In a little while, and they 
will go the way that their brethren have gone before. The few 
hordes which still linger about the shores of Huron and Superior, 
and the tributary streams of the Mississippi, will share the fate 
of those tribes that once spread over Massachusetts and Connec- 
ticut, and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that 
gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the Susque- 
hanna; and of those various nations that flourished about the 
Potomac and the Rappahannock, and that peopled the forests of 
the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like a vapor 
from the face of the earth ; their very history will be lost in for- 
getfulness ; and " the places that now know them will know them 
no more for ever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of 
them should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the 
poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, like the 
fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he 
venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness ; 
should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled, driven 
from their native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers, 
hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and sent down with vio- 
lence and butchery to the grave, posterity will either turn with 
horror and incredulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at 
the inhumanity of their forefathers. — " We are driven back," said 

16 



362 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



an old warrior, " until we can retreat no farther — our hatchets 
are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly extin- 
guished — a little longer and the white man will cease to persecute 
us — for we shall cease to exist !" 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 



AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look : 
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook: 
Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier, 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

Campbell. 



It is to be regretted tliat those early writers, who treated of the 
discovery and settlement of America, have not given us more 
particular and candid accounts of the remarkable characters that 
flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have 
reached us are full of peculiarity and interest ; they furnish us 
with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in 
a comparatively primitive state, and what he owes to civilization. 
There is something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon 
these wild and unexplored tracts of human nature ; in witnessing, 
as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment, and perceiving 
those generous and romantic qualities which have been artifi- 
cially cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood 
and rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the 



364 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fel- 
low-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and 
peculiar traits of native character are refined away, or soft- 
ened down by the leveling influence of what is termed good- 
breeding ; and he practises so many petty deceptions, and affects 
so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that 
it is difficult to distinguish his real from his artificial character. 
The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and refine- 
ments of polished life, and, in a great degree, a solitary and inde- 
pendent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dictates 
of his judgment ; and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely 
indulged, grow singly great and striking. Society is like a lawn, 
where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, 
and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet 
surface ; he, however, who would study nature in its wildness 
and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, 
must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume 
of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bitter- 
ness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers 
of New England. It is painful to perceive, even from these par- 
tial narratives, how the footsteps of civilization may be traced in 
the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the colonists were moved 
to hostility by the lust of conquest ; how merciless and extermi- 
nating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, 
how many intellectual beings were hunted from the earth, how 
many brave and noble hearts, of nature's sterling doinage, were 
broken down and trampled in the dust ! 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian 
warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 365 



and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number 
of contemporary Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the 
Narragansets, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes, 
at the time of the first settlement of New England ; a band of 
native untaught heroes, who made the most generous struggle of 
which human nature is capable ; fighting to the last gasp in the 
cause of their country, without a hope of victory or a thought of 
j renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit subjects for local 
story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic 
traces on the page of history, but stalk, like gigantic shadows, in 
the dim twilight of tradition.* 

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by 
their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New 
World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation 
was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in num- 
ber, and that number rapidly perishing away through sickness 
j and hardships ; surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage 
j tribes ; exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter, and the 
vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate ; their minds were filled 
with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved them from sink- 
ing into despondency but the strong excitement of religious 
enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by Mas- 
sasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief, who 
reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of taking advan- 
tage of the scanty number of the strangers, and expelling them 
from his territories, into which they had intruded, he seemed at 

* While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the author is informed 
that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an heroic poem on the 
story of Philip of Pokanoket. 



366 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



once to conceive for them a generous friendship, and extended 
towards them the rites of primitive hospitality. He came early 
in the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by 
a mere handful of followers ; entered into a solemn league of 
peace and amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to 
secure for them the good- will of his savage allies. Whatever may 
be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the, integrity and good 
faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. He continued a 
firm and magnanimous friend of the white men ; suffering them 
to extend their possessions, and to strengthen themselves in the^ 
land ; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing power and 
prosperity. Shortly before his death he came once more to New 
Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the purpose of renewing 
the covenant of peace, and of securing it to his posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion of his 
forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries ; and 
stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw off his 
people from their ancient faith ; but, finding the English obsti- 
nately opposed to any such condition, he mildly relinquished the 
demand. Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two 
sons, Alexander and Philip (as they had been named by the 
English), to the residence of a principal settler, recommending 
mutual kindness and confidence; and entreating that the same 
love and amity which had existed between the white men and 
himself might be continued afterwards with his children. The 
good old Sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered to his 
fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe ; his children remained 
behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a ^ 
quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his heredi- 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 367 



tary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial con- 
duct of the strangers excited his indignation ; and he beheld with 
uneasiness their exterminating wars with the neighboring tribes. 
He was doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of 
plotting with the Narragansets to rise against the English and 
drive them from the land. It is impossible to say whether this 
accusation was warranted by facts, or was grounded on mere sus- 
picions. It is evident, however, by the violent and overbearing 
measures of the settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel 
conscious of the rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh 
and inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. They dis- 
patched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring 
him before their courts. He was traced to his woodland haunts, 
and surprised at a hunting house, where he was reposing with a 
band of his followers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The 
suddenness of his arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign 
dignity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage, 
as to throw him into a raging fever. He was permitted to return 
home, on condition of sending his son as a pledge for his re-ap- 
pearance ; but the blow he had received was fatal, and before he 
reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded 
spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or King Philip, 
as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty spirit and 
ambitious temper. These, together with his well-known energy 
and enterprise, had rendered him an object of great jealousy and 
apprehension, and he was accused of having always cherished a 
secret and implacable hostility towards the whites. Such may 
very probably, and very naturally, have been the case. He con- 
sidered them as originally but mere intruders into the country. 



368 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



who had presumed upon indulgence, and were extending an influ- 
ence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his 
countrymen melting before them from the face of the earth ; their 
territories slipping from their hands, and their tribes becoming 
feeble, scattered, and dependent. It may be said that the soil 
was originally purchased by the settlers ; but who does not know 
the nature of Indian purchases, in the early periods of coloniza- 
tion? The Europeans always made thrifty bargains through 
their superior adroitness in traffic ; and they gained vast acces- 
sions of territory by easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated! 
savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law, by 
which an injury may be gradually and legally inflicted. Leading 
facts are all by which he judges ; and it was enough for Philip 
to know that before the intrusion of the Europeans his country- 
men were lords of the soil, and that now they were becoming 
vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility, 
and his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, he 
suppressed them for the present, renewed the contract with the 
settlers, and resided peaceably for many many years at Poka- 
noket, or, as it was called by the English, Mount Hope,* the 
ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which 
were at first but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and 
substance ; and he was at length charged with attempting to insti- 
gate the various Eastern tribes to rise at once, and, by a simul- 
taneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is 
difficult at this distant period to assign the proper credit due to 
these early accusations against the Indians. There was a prone- 
ness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence, on the part 

* Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 369 



of the whites, that gave weight and importance to every idle tale. 
Informers abounded where talebearing met with countenance 
and reward ; and the sword was readily unsheathed when its suc- 
cess was certain, and it carved out empire. 
I The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the 

I accusation of one Sausaraan, a renegado Indian, whose natural 
I cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he 
I had received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his 
; allegiance two or three times, with a facility that evinced the 
j looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as 
i Philip's confidential secretary and counselor, and had enjoyed 
; his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of 
adversity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his ser- 
vice and went over to the whites ; and, in order to gain their 
favor, charged his former benefactor with plotting against their 
I safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip and several 
I of his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was proved 
against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to 
retract ; they had previously determined that Philip was a dan- 
I gerous neighbor ; they had publicly evinced their distrust ; and 
had done enough to insure his hostility ; according, therefore, to 
I the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruction had 
i become necessary to their security. Sausaman, the treacherous 
! informer, was shortly afterwards found dead, in a pond, having 
■ fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one 
of whom was a friend and counselor of Philip, were appre- 
hended and tried, and, on the testimony of one very questionable 
witness, were condemned and executed as murderers. 
^ This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punishment 
of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of 

16* 



370 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet awa- 
kened him to the gathering storm, and he determined to trust 
himself no longer in the power of the white men. The fate of 
his insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled in his mind ; 
and he had a further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, 
a great Sachem of the Narragansets, who, after manfully facing 
his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself 
from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, 
had been perfidiously dispatched at their instigation. Philip, 
therefore, gathered his fighting men about him ; persuaded all 
strangers that he could, to join his cause ; sent the women and 
children to the Narragansets for safety ; and wherever he ap- 
peared, was continually surrounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and irri- 
tation, the least spark was sufiScient to set them in a flame. The 
Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, and 
committed various petty depredations. In one of their maraud- 
ings a warrior was fired on and killed by a settler. This was the 
signal for open hostilities ; the Indians pressed to revenge the 
death of their comrade, and the alarm of war resounded through 
the Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times 
we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the public 
mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, and the wildness of 
their situation, among trackless forests and savage tribes, had dis- 
posed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and had filled their 
imaginations with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spec- 
trology. They were much given also to a belief in omens. The 
troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, 
by a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 



371 



public calamities. The perfect form of ar. Indian bow appeared 
in the air at New Plymouth, which was looked upon by the 
inhabitants as a " prodigious apparition." At Hadley, Northamp- 
ton, and other towns in their neighborhood, " was heard the re- 
port of a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of the earth 
and a considerable echo."* Others were alarmed on a still sun- 
shiny morning by the discharge of guns and muskets ; ballets 
seemed to whistle past them, and the noise of drums resounded in 
the air, seeming to pass away to the westward ; others fancied 
that they heard the galloping of horses over their heads ; and cer- 
tain monstrous births, which took place about the time, filled the 
superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. Many of 
these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to natural phe- 
nomena : to the northern lights which occur vividly in those lati- 
tudes ; the meteors which explode in the air ; the casual rushing 
of a blast through the top branches of the forest ; the crash of 
fallen trees or disrupted rocks ; and to those other uncouth sounds 
and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely 
amidst the profound stillness of Avoodland solitudes. These may 
have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have been ex- 
aggerated by the love for the marvelous, and listened to with that 
avidity with which we devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. 
The universal currency of these superstitious fancies, and the 
grave record made of them by one of the learned men of the day, 
are strongly characteristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often 
distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. On 
the part of the whites it was conducted with superior skill and 



* The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 



372 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



success ; but with a wastefulness of the blood, and a disregard of 
the natural rights of their antagonists : on the part of the Indians 
it was waged wnth the desperation of men fearless of death, and 
who had nothing to expect from peace, but humiliation, depend- 
ence, and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy 
clergyman of the time ; who dwells with horror and indignation on 
every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst he 
mentions Avith applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the 
whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor ; without 
considering that he was a true born prince, gallantly fighting at 
the head of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family ; to 
retrieve the tottering power of his line ; and to deliver his native 
land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had 
really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and, had it 
not been prematurely discovered, might have been overwhelming 
in its consequences. The war that actually broke out was but a 
war of detail, a mere succession of casual exploits and uncon- 
nected enterprises. Still it sets forth the military genius and 
daring prowess of Philip ; and wherever, in the prejudiced and 
passionate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive at 
simple facts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, a fertility 
of expedients, a contempt of suffering and hardship, and an uncon- 
querable resolution, that command our sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw 
himself into the depths of those ^-ast and trackless forests that 
skirted the settlements, and were almost impervious to any thing 
but a wild beast, or an Indian. Here he gathered together his 
forces, like the storm accumulatino- its stores of mischief in the 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 3T3 



bosom of the thunder cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a 
time and place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the 
villages. There were now and then indications of these impend- 
ing ravages, that filled the minds of the colonists with awe and 
apprehension. The report of a distant gun would perhaps be 
heard from the solitary woodland, where there was known to be 
no white man ; the cattle which had been wandering in the woods 
would sometimes return home wounded ; or an Indian or two 
would be seen lurking about the skirts of the forests, and sud- 
denly disappearing ; as the lightning will sometimes be seen 
playing silently about the edge of the cloud that is brewing up 
the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the set- 
tlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from their 
toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to all search 
or inquiry, until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, 
laying the country desolate. Among his strong-holds, were the 
great swamps or morasses, which extend in some parts of New 
England ; composed of loose bogs of deep black mud ; perplexed 
with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering 
trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The 
uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, 
rendered them almost impracticable to the white man, though the 
Indian could thrid their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. 
Into one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip 
once driven with a band of his followers. The English did not 
dare to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark and fright- 
ful recesses, where they might perish in fens and miry pits, or be 
shot down by lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance 
to the Neck, and began to build a fort, with the thought of starv- 



374 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



ing out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafted themselves 
on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of night, leaving the 
women and children behind; and escaped away to the westward, 
kindling the flames of war among the tribes of Massachusetts 
and the Nipmuck country, and threatening the colony of Connec- 
ticut. 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehension. 
The mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated his real 
terrors. He was an evil that walked in darkness ; whose coming 
none could foresee, and against which none knew when to be on 
the alert. The whole country abounded with rumors and alarms. 
Philip seemed almost possessed of ubiquity ; for, in whatever part 
of the widely-extended frontier an irruption from the forest took 
place, Philip was said to be its leader. Many superstitious notions 
also were circulated concerning him. He was said to deal in ne- 
cromancy, and to be attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, 
whom he consulted, and who assisted him by her charms and incan- 
tations. This indeed was frequently the case with Indian chiefs ; 
either through their own credulity, or to act upon that of their 
followers : and the influence of the prophet and the dreamer over 
Indian superstition has been fully evidenced in recent instances 
of savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset, his 
fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had been 
thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the whole of 
his resources. In this time of adversity he found a faithful friend 
in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all the Narragansets. He was 
the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who, as 
already mentioned, after an honorable acquittal of the charge of 
conspiracy, had been privately put to death at the perfidious insti- 



PHILIP OP POKANOKET. 375 



gations of the settlers. " He was the heir," says the old chroni- 
cler, "of all his father's pride and insolence, as well as of his 
malice towards the English ;" — he certainly was the heir of his 
insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his murder. 
Though he had forborne to take an active part in this hopeless 
war, yet he received Philip and his broken forces with open 
arms ; and gave them the most generous countenance and support. 
This at once drew upon him the hostility of the English ; and 
it was determined to strike a signal blow that should involve both 
the Sachems in one common ruin. A great force was, therefore, 
gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecti- 
cut, and was sent into the Narraganset country in the depth of 
winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be tra- 
versed with comparative facility, and would no longer afford dark 
and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the greater 
part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, the women 
and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress ; where he and 
Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. This 
fortress, deemed by the Indians impregnable, was situated upon a 
rising mound or kind of island, of five or six acres, in the midst 
of a swamp ; it was constructed with a degree of judgment and 
skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed in Indian fortifi- 
cation, and indicative of the martial genius of these two chief- 
tains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, through 
December snows, to this strong-hold, and came upon the garrison 
by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. The assail- 
ants were repulsed in their first attack, and several of their brav- 
est ofiicers were shot down in the act of storming the fortress 



376 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



sword in hand. The assault was renewed with greater success. 
A lodgment was effected. The Indians were driven from one 
post to another. They disputed their ground inch by inch, fight- 
ing with the fury of despair. Most of their veterans were cut to 
pieces ; and after a long and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, 
with a handful of surviviug warriors, retreated from the fort, and 
took refuge in the thickets of the surrounding. forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the whole 
was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, the women and the 
children perished in the flames. This last outrage overcame even 
the stoicism of the savage. The neighboring woods resounded 
with the yells of rage and despair, uttered by the fugitive war- 
riors, as they beheld the destruction of their dwellings, and heard 
the agonizing cries of their wives and offspring. " The burning 
of the wigwams," says a contemporary writer, " the shrieks and 
cries of the women and children, and the yelling of the warriors, 
exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so that it greatly 
moved some of the soldiers." The same writer cautiously adds, 
" they were in much douht then, and afterwards seriously inquired, 
whether burning their enemies alive could be consistent with hu- 
manity, and the benevolent principles of the Gospel."* 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of 
particular mention : the last scene of his life is one of the noblest 
instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal defeat, 
yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless cause which he had 
espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on condition 
of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared that "he 

i » MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. 

i 



A 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 377 



would fight it out to the last man, rather than become a servant 
to the English." His home being destroyed ; his country har- 
assed and laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors ; he was 
obliged to wander away to the banks of the Connecticut ; where 
he formed a rallying point to the whole body of western Indians, 
and laid waste several of the English settlements. 

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, 
with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the 
vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed corn to plant for 
the sustenance of his troops. This little band of adventurers 
had passed safely through the Pequod country, and were in the 
centre of the Narraganset, resting at some wigwams near Pau- 
tucket river, when an alarm w^as given of an approaching enemy. 
— Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet dis- 
patched two of them to the top of a neighboring hill, to bring 
intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and 
Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past 
their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger. 
Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then 
sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and 
affright, told him that the whole British army was at hand. 
Canonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flight. He 
attempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and hotly 
pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest of the 
English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he 
threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and belt of 
peag, by which his enemies knew him to be Canonchet, and 
redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped upon 



' 4. 



378 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This accident so 
struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards confessed, " his 
heart and his bowels turned within him, and he became like a 
rotten stick, void of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by a 
Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made no 
resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and boldness of 
heart. But on being made prisoner the whole pride of his spirit 
arose within him ; and from that moment, we find, in the anec- 
dotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of ele- 
vated and prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of the 
English who first came up with him, and who had not attained 
his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with 
lofty contempt upon his youthful countenance, replied, " You are 
a child — you cannot understand matters of war — let your brother 
or your chief come — him will I answer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on con- 
dition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he rejected 
them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals of the kind 
to the great body of his subjects ; saying, that he knew none of 
them would comply. Being reproached with his breach of faith 
towards the whites ; his boast that he would not deliver up a 
Wampanoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag's nail; and his 
threat that he would burn the English alive in their houses ; he 
disdained to justify himself, haughtily answering that others were 
as forward for the war as himself, and " he desired to hear no 
more thereof." 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his cause 
and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the generous 
and the brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian ; a being towards 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 379 



whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no com- 
passion — he was condemned to die. The last words of his that 
are recorded, are worthy the greatness of his soul. When sen- 
tence of death was passed upon him, he observed " that he liked 
it well, for he should die before his heart was soft, or he had 
spoken any thing unworthy of himself" His enemies gave him 
the death of a soldier, for he was shot at Stoningham, by three 
young Sachems of his own rank. 

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of 
Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. He 
made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by stirring up 
the Mohawks to take arms ; but though possessed of the native 
talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the superior 
arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike 
skill began to subdue the resolution of the neighboring tribes. 
The unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of power, 
and his ranks rapidly thinning around him. Some were suborned 
by the whites ; others fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and to 
the frequent attacks by which they were harassed. His stores 
were all captured; his chosen friends were swept away from 
before his eyes ; his uncle was shot down by his side ; his sister 
was carried into captivity ; and in one of his narrow escapes he 
was compelled to leave his beloved wife and only son to the 
mercy of the enemy. "His ruin," says the historian, "being 
thus gradually carried on, his misery was not prevented, but aug- 
mented thereby ; being himself made acquainted with the sense 
and experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of 
friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family rela- 
tions, and being stripped of aU outward comforts, before his own 
life should be taken away." 



380 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers 
began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might 
purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery a number of 
his faithful adherents, the subjects of "Wetamoe, an Indian prin- 
cess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, 
were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was 
among them at the time, and attempted to make her escape by 
crossing a neighboring river : either exhausted by swimming, or 
starved with cold and hunger, she was found dead and naked 
near the water side. But persecution ceased not at the grave. 
Even death, the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked com- 
monly cease from troubling, was no protection to this outcast 
female, vs^hose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kins- 
man and her friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly and 
dastardly vengeance ; the head was severed from the body and 
set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton, to the view of 
her captive subjects. They immediately recognized the features 
of their unfortunate queen, and were so affected at this barbarous 
spectacle, that we are told they broke forth into the " most horrid 
and diabolical lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated mise- 
ries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his 
followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despon- 
dency. It is said that " he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had 
success in any of his designs." The spring of hope was broken — 
the ardor of enterprise was extinguished — he looked around, and 
all was danger and darkness ; there was no eye to pity, nor any 
arm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of follow- 
ers, who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy 
Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 381 . 



dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about, like a spectre, 
among the scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of 
home, of family and friend. There needs no better picture of his 
destitute and piteous situation, than that furnished by the homely 
pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of 
the reader in favqr of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. 
" Philip," he says, " like a savage wild beast, having been hunted 
by the English forces through the woods, above a hundred miles 
backward and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon 
Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, 
into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till the 
messengers of death came by divine permission to execute ven- 
geance upon him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen 
grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to our- 
selves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence 
over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from 
the wildness and dreariness of his lurking place. Defeated, but 
not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he 
seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience 
a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Lit- 
tle minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune ; but great minds 
rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened the fury 
of Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers, who pro- 
posed an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim made 
his escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. 
A body of white men and Indians were immediately dispatched 
to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and 
despair. Before he was aware of their approach, they had begun 
to surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest fol- 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



lowers laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was vain ; he rushed 
forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt to escape, but 
was shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of his own 
nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate King 
Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored when 
dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes 
furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of 
amiable and lofty character sufficient to awaken sympathy for his 
fate, and respect for his memory. We find that, amidst all the 
harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he 
was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal ten- 
derness, and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity 
of his " beloved wife and only son " are mentioned with exulta- 
tion as causing him poignant misery : the death of any near friend 
is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities ; but 
the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose 
affections he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, and 
to have bereaved him of all further comfort. He was a patriot 
attached to his native soil — a prince true to his subjects, and in- 
dignant of their wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adver- 
sity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily 
suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. 
Proud of heart, and with an untamable love of natural liberty, 
he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the forests or in the 
dismal and famished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than 
bow his haughty spirit to submission, and live dependent and 
despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic 
qualities and bold achievements that would have graced a civilized 
warrior, and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 383 



historian ; he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, 
and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and 
tempest — without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly 
hand to record his struggle. 




i 



JOHN BULL. 



An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, 
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his IooIck, 
With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier, etc. 

Old Song. 



There is no species of humor in which the English more excel, 
than that which consists in caricaturing and giving ludicrolis ap- 
pellations, or nicknames. In this way they have whimsically 
designated, not merely individuals, but nations ; and, in their fond- 
ness for pushing a joke, they have not spared even themselves. 
One would think that, in personifying itself, a nation would be apt 
to picture something grand, heroic, and imposing ; but it is cha- 
racteristic of the peculiar humor of the English, and of their love 
for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have embodied 
their national oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fel- 
low, with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, 
and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight, 
in exhibiting their most private foibles in a laughable point of 
view ; and have been so successful in their delineations, that there 

17 



386 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



is scarcely a being in actual existence more absolutely present to 
the public mind than that eccentric personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus 
drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the nation ; and thus 
to give reality to what at first may have been painted in a great 
measure from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire peculiari- 
ties that are continually ascribed to them. T-he common orders 
of English seem wonderfully captivated with the heau ideal which 
they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the 
broad caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. Unluckily, 
they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism an apology for their 
prejudice or grossness ; and this I have especially noticed among 
those truly homebred and genuine sons of the soil w^ho have 
never migrated beyond the sound of Bow-bells. If one of these 
should be a little uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent 
truths, he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks 
his mind. If he now and then flies into an unreasonable burst 
of passion about trifles, he observes, that John Bull is a choleric 
old blade, but then his passion is over in a moment, and he bears 
no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insensi- 
bility to foreign refinements, he thanks heaven for his ignorance — 

i he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and nick- 
nacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay 
extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea of muni- 

j ficence — for John is always more generous than wise. 

1 Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue 

every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict himself of being 
•the honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may have suited in 
the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, or 



JOHN BULL. 



38? 



rather they have adapted themselves to each other ; and a stran- 
ger who wishes to study EngKsh peculiarities, may gather much 
valuable information from the innumerable portraits of John 
Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the caricature-shops. Still, 
however, he is one of those fertile humorists, that are continually 
throwing out new portraits, and presenting different aspects from 
diiferents points of view ; and, often as he has been described, I 
cannot resist the temptation to give a slight sketch of him, such 
as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter-of- 
fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose. 
There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong 
natural feeling. He excels in humor more than in wit ; is jolly 
rather than gay ; melancholy rather than morose ; can easily be 
moved to a sudden tear, or surprised into a broad laugh ; but he 
loathes sentiment, and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a 
boon companion, if you allow him to have his humor, and to talk 
about himself; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with 
life and purse, however soundly he may be cudgeled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to be 
somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who thinks 
not merely for himself and family, but for all the country round, 
and is most generously disposed to be every body's champion. 
He is continually volunteering his services to settle his neighbor's 
affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter 
of consequence without asking his advice ; though he seldom en- 
gages in any friendly ofRce of the kind without finishing by get- 
ting into a squabble with all parties, and then railing bitterly at 
their ingratitude. He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the 
noble science of defence, and having accomplished himself in the 



388 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a perfect master at 
boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever 
since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant of 
his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble with the head 
of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does 
not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has 
extended his relations of pride and policy so completely over the 
whole country, that no event can take place, without infringing 
some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his little, 
domain, with these filaments stretching forth in every direction, 
he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old spider, who has woven 
his web over a whole chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz, nor a 
breeze blow, without startling his repose, and causing him to sally 
forth wrathfully from his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at 
bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of conten- 
tion. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he only relishes 
the beginning of an affray ; he always goes into a fight with alac- 
rity, but comes out of it grumbling even when victorious ; and 
though no one fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested 
point, yet, when the battle is over, and he comes to the reconcili- 
ation, he is so much taken up with the mere shaking of haaids, 
that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that they have been 
quarrehng about. It is not, therefore, fighting that he ought so 
much to be on his guard against, as making friends. It is difficult 
to cudgel him out of a farthing ; but put him in a good humor, 
and you may bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. 
He is like a stout ship, which will weather the roughest storm 
uninjured, but roll its masts overboard in the succeeding calm. 

Re is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of pulling 



! 

1 JOHN BULL. 389 



out a long purse ; flinging his money bravely about at boxing 
matches, horse races, cock fights, and carrying a high head among 
"gentlemen of the fancy:" but immediately after one of these 
fits of extravagance, he will be taken with violent qualms of 
economy ; stop short at the most trivial expenditure ; talk despe- 
rately of being ruined and brought upon the parish ; and, in such 
moods, will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill, without violent 
altercation. He is in fact the most punctual and discontented 
paymaster in the world ; drawing his coin out of his breeches 
pocket with infinite reluctance ; paying to the uttermost farthing, 
but accompanying every guinea with a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful pro- 
vider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a whim- 
sical kind, its chief object being to devise how he may afford to 
be extravagant ; for he will begrudge himself a beef-steak and 
pint of port one day, that he may roast an ox whole, broach a 
hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not so 
much from any great outward parade, as from the great consump- 
tion of solid beef and pudding ; the vast number of followers he 
feeds and clothes ; and his singular disposition to pay hugely for 
small services. He is a most kind and indulgent master, and, 
provided his servants humor his peculiarities, flatter his vanity 
a little now and then, and do not peculate grossly on him before 
his face, they may manage him to perfection. Every thing that 
lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat. His house-servants 
are well paid, and pampered, and have little to do. His horses 
are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly before his state carriage ; 
and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will hardly 
bark at a house-breaker. 



390 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray 
with age, and of a most venerable, though weather-beaten ap- 
pearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is a vast 
accumulation of parts, erected in various tastes and ages. The 
centre bears evident traces of Saxon architecture, and is as solid 
as ponderous stone and old English oak can make it. Like aU 
the relics of that style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate 
mazes, and dusky chambers ; and though these have been par- ; 
tially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places where ^ | 
you must still grope in the dark. Additions have been made j. 
to the original edifice from time to time, and great alterations I 
have taken place ; towers and battlements have been erected 
during wars and tumults : wings built in time of peace ; and out- 
houses, lodges, and offices, run up according to the whim or con- 
venience of different generations, until it has become one of the 
most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An entire wing is 
taken up with the family chapel, a reverend pile, that must have 
been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of having been 
altered and simplified at various periods, has still a look of solemn 
religious pomp. Its walls within are storied with the monuments 
of John's ancestors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions 
and well-lined chairs, where such of his family as are inclined to 
church services, may doze comfortably in the discharge of their 
duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; but he 
is stanch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the circum- 
stance that many dissenting chapels have been erected in his 
vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with whom he has had 
quarrels, are strong papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large ex- 



JOHN BULL. 



39^1 



peiise, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most learned 
and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred Christian, who 
always backs the old gentleman in his opinions, winks discreetly 
at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the children when refractory, and 
is of great use in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say 
their prayers, and, above all, to pay their rents punctually, and 
without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, some- 
what heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn 
magnificence of former times ; fitted up with rich, though faded 
tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of massy gorgeous old 
plate. The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens, extensive cellars, 
and sumptuous banqueting halls, all speak of the roaring hospi- 
tality of days of yore, of which the modern festivity at the manor- 
house is but a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of 
rooms apparently deserted and time-worn ; and towers and tur- 
rets that are tottering to decay ; so that in high winds there is 
danger of their tumbling about the ears of the household. 

John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice 
thoroughly overhauled ; and to have some of the useless parts 
pulled down, and the others strengthened with their materials ; 
but the old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. He 
swears the house is an excellent house — that it is tight and 
weather proof, and not to be shaken by tempests — that it has 
stood for several hundred years, and, therefore, is not likely to 
tumble down now — that as to its being inconvenient, his family is 
accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be comfortable 
without them — that as to its unwieldy size and irregular con- 
struction, these result from its being the growth of centuries, and 
being improved by the wisdom of every generation — that an old 



392 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

family, like his, requires a large house to dwell in ; new, upstart 
families may live in modern cottages and snug boxes ; but an 
old English family should inhabit an old English manor-house. 
If you point out any part of the building as superfluous, he insists 
that it is material to the strength or decoration of the rest, and 
the harmony of the whole ; and swears that the parts are So built 
into each other, that if you pull down one, you run the risk of 
having the whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that .John has a great disposition 
to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to the dig- 
nity of an ancient and honorable family, to be bounteous in its 
appointments, and to be eaten up by dependents ; and so, partly 
from pride, and partly from kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule 
always to give shelter and maintenance to his superannuated 
servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family 
establishments, his manor is incumbered by old retainers whom 
he cannot turn off, and an old style which he cannot lay down. 
His mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and, with all its 
magnitude, is not a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a 
nook or corner but is of use in housing some useless personage. 
Groups of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired 
heroes of the buttery and the larder, are seen lolling about its 
walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning 
themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every office and out- 
house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their families ; 
for they are amazingly prolific, and when they die off, are sure to 
leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A 
mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering tumble- 
down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or loop-hole, the 



JOHN BULL. 393 



gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, who has lived at 
John's expense all his life, and makes the most grievous outcry 
at their pulling down the roof from over the head of a worn-out 
servant of the family. This is an appeal that John's honest heart 
never can withstand ; so that a man, who has faithfully eaten hie 
beef and pudding all his life, is sure to be rewarded with a pipe 
and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, where 
his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed 
for the remainder of their existence — a worthy example of grate- 
ful recollection, which if some of his neighbors were to imitate, 
would not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great 
pleasures to point out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on 
their good qualities, extol their past services, and boast, with 
some little vainglory, of the perilous adventures and hardy 
exploits through which they have carried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family 
usages, and family incumbrances, to a whimsical extent. His 
manor is infested by gangs of gipsies ; yet he will not suffer them 
to be driven off, because they have infested the place time out of 
mind, and been regular poachers upon every generation of the 
family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from 
the great trees that surround the house, lest it should molest the 
rooks, that have bred there for centuries. Owls have taken 
possession of the dovecote ; but they are hereditary owls, and 
must not be disturbed. Swallows have nearly choked up every 
chimney with their nests ; martins build in every frieze and 
cornice ; crows flutter about the towers, and perch on every 
weather-cock ; and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every 
quarter of the house, running in and out of their holes undaunt- 

17* 



394 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



edly in broad daylight. In short, John has such a reverence for 
every thing that has been long in the family, that he will not 
hear even of abuses being reformed, because they are good old 
family abuses. 

All these whims and habits have concurred wofuUy to drain 
the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself on punctu- 
ality in money matters, and wishes to maintain his credit in the 
neighborhood, they have caused him great perplexity in meeting 
his engagements. This, too, has been increased by the alter- 
cations and heart-burnings which are continually taking place in 
his family. His children have been brought up to different call- 
ings, and are of different ways of thinking ; and as they have 
always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not fail 
to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the present posture 
of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the race, and are 
clear that the old establishment should be kept up in all its state, 
whatever may be the cost; others, who are more prudent and 
considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses, 
and to put his whole system of housekeeping on a more moderate 
footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to listen to 
their opinions, but their wholesome advice has been completely 
defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his sons. This is 
a noisy rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects his 
business to frequent ale-houses — is the orator of village clubs, 
and a complete oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. 
No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention reform or 
retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes the words out of their 
mouths, and roars out for an overturn. When his tongue is once 
going nothing can stop it. He rants about the room; hectors 
the old man about his spendthrift practices ; ridicules his tastes 



JOHN BULL. 



395 



and pursuits ; insists that he shall turn the old servants out of 
doors ; give the broken-down horses to the hounds ; send the fat 
chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher in his place — nay, that 
the whole family mansion shall be leveled with the ground, and a 
plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails at 
every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks away 
growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives up to the 
door. Though constantly complaining of the emptiness of his 
purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket-money in these 
tavern convocations, and even runs up scores for the liquor over 
which he preaches about his father's extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting agrees 
with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has become so ir 
ritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere mention of retrench- 
ment or reform is a signal for a brawl between him and the 
tavern oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refractory for 
paternal discipline, having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, 
they have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run 
so high, that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an 
officer who has served abroad, but is at present living at 
home, on half-pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentle- 
man, right or wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing, 
roystering life ; and is ready at a wink or nod, to out sabre, and 
flourish it over the orator's head, if he dares to array himself 
against paternal authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and are 
rare food for scandal in .John's neighborhood. People begin to 
look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his affiiirs are men- 
tioned. They all " hope that matters are not so bad with him as 
represented ; but when a man's own children begin to rail at his 



396 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



extravagance, things must be badly managed. They understand 
he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually dabbling 
with money lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old gentle- 
man, but they fear he has lived too fast ; indeed, they never knew 
any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, reveling and 
prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and 
has been in the family a long while ; but, for all that, they have 
known many finer estates come to the hammer." 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary em- 
barrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor man him- 
self. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and smug rosy face, 
which he used to present, he has of late become as shriveled and 
shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, 
which bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days when he 
sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like a main- 
sail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, 
and apparently have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on 
both sides of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cornered 
hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it down every 
moment with a hearty thump upon the ground; looking every 
one sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave of a catch or a 
drinking song ; he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to him- 
self, with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his 
arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches pockets, 
which are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet for all 
this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If 
you drop the least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes 
fire in an instant ; swears that he is the richest and stoutest fellow 



JOHN BULL. 



397. 



in the country ; talks of laying out large sums to adorn his house 
i or buy another estate ; and with a valiant swagger and grasping 
of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have another bout at quarter- 
I staff 

: Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, 

yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation without strong 
feelings of interest. With all his odd humors and obstinate pre- 
judices, he is a sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so 
wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, but he is at least 
twice as good as his neighbors represent him. His virtues are 
all his own ; all plain, homebred, and unaffected. His very faults 
smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His extravagance 
savors of his generosity ; his quarrelsomeness of his courage ; his 
credulity of his open faith ; his vanity of his pride ; and his 
bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the redundancies of a 
rich and liberal character. He is like his own oak, rough with- 
out, but sound and solid within ; whose bark abounds with excres- 
cences in proportion to the growth and grandeur of the timber ; 
and whose branches make a fearful groaning and murmuring in the 
least storm, from their very magnitude and luxuriance. There is 
something, too, in the appearance of his old family mansion that 
is extremely poetical and picturesque ; and, as long as it can be 
rendered comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to see it 
meddled with, during the present conflict of tastes and opinions. 
Some of his advisers are no doubt good architects, that might be 
of service ; but many, I fear, are mere levelers, who, when they 
had once got to work with their mattocks on this venerable edi- 
fice, would never stop until they had brought it to the ground, and 
perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is, 
that John's present troubles may teach him more prudence in 



398 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



future. That he may cease to distress his mind about other peo- 
ple's affairs ; that he may give up the fruitless attempt to promote 
the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happiness of the 
world, by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at 
home; gradually get his house into repair; cultivate his rich 
estate according to his fancy ; husband his income — if he thinks 
proper; bring his unruly children into order-— if he can; renew 
the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; and long enjoy, on his 
paternal lands, a green, an honorable, and a merry old age. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 



May no wolfe howle ; no screech owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No bovsterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring, 
Love kept it ever flourishing. 



Herrice. 



In the course of an excursion through one of the remote coun- 
ties of England, I had struck into one of those cross roads that 
lead through the more secluded parts of the country, and stopped 
one afternoon at a village, the situation of which was beautifully 
rural and retired. There was an air of primitive simplicity 
about its inhabitants, not to be found in the villages which lie on 
the great coach-roads. I determined to pass the night there, and, 
having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighbor- 
ing scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travelers, soon led me 
to the church, which stood at a little distance from the village. 
Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old tower being 
completely overrun with ivy, so that only here and there a jut- 
ting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantastically carved 
ornament, peered through the verdant covering. It was a lovely 
evening. The early part of the day had been dark and showery, 



400 



THE SKETCH BOOK, 



but in the afternoon it had cleared up ; and though sullen clouds 
still hung over head, yet there was a broad tract of golden sky in 
the west, from which the setting sun gleamed through the drip- 
ping leaves, and lit up all nature into a melancholy smile. It 
seemed like the parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the 
sins and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his 
dechne, an assurance that he will rise again in ^lory. 

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was 
musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on past 
scenes and early friends — on those who were distant and those 
who were dead — and indulging in that kind of melancholy fancy- 
ing, which has in it something sweeter even than pleasure. 
Every now and then, the stroke of a bell from the neighboring 
tower fell on my ear ; its tones were in unison with the scene, 
and, instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings ; and it was 
some time before I recollected that it must be tolling the knell of 
some new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
gi'een ; it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and reappeared 
through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place where 
I was sitting. The pall was supported by young girls, dressed in 
white ; and another, about the age of seventeen, walked before, 
bearing a chaplet of white flowers ; a token that the deceased was 
a young and unmarried female. The corpse was followed by the 
parents. They were a venerable couple of the better order of 
peasantry. The father seemed to repress his feelings ; but his 
fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply-furrowed face, showed the 
struggle that was passing within. His wife hung on his arm, and 
wept aloud with the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed 



.J 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 



401 



in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair 
of white gloves, were hung over the seat which the deceased had 
occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral ser- 
vice ; for who is so fortunate as never to have followed some one 
he has loved to the tomb ? but when performed over the remains 
of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom of existence 
— what can be more affecting ? At that simple, but most solemn 
consignment of the body to the grave—" Earth to earth — ashes 
to ashes — dust to dust !" — the tears of the youthful companions of 
the deceased flowed unrestrained- The father still seemed to strug- 
gle with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the assurance, 
that the dead are blessed which die in the Lord ; but the mother 
only thought of her child as a flower of the field cut down and 
withered in the midst of its sweetness ; she was like Rachel, 
" mourning over her children, and would not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learnt the whole story of the de- 
ceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been told. 
She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her father 
had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in circum- 
stances. This was an only child, and brought up entirely at 
home, in the simplicity of rural life. She had been the pupil of 
the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little flock. The good 
man watched over her education with paternal care ; it was lim- 
ited, and suitable to the sphere in which she was to move ; for he 
only sought to make her an ornament to her station in life, not to 
raise her above it. The tenderness and indulgence of her parents, 
and the exemption from all ordinary occupations, had fostered a 
natural grace and delicacy of character, that accorded with the 
fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared like some tender 



402 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



plant of the garden, blooming accidentally amid the hardier na- 
tives of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by 
her companions, but without envy ; for it was surpassed by the 
unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her manners. It 
might be truly said of her : 

" This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
Ran on the green-sward ; nothing she does or seems. 
But smacks of something- greater than herself; 
Too noble for this place." 



The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still 
retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural 
festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint ob- 
servance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, had 
been promoted by its present pastor, who was a lover of old cus- 
toms, and one of those simple Christians that think their mission 
fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good-will among mankind. 
Under his auspices the May-pole stood from year to year in the 
centre of the village green ; on May-day it was decorated with 
garlands and streamers ; and a queen or lady of the May was 
appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, and dis- 
tribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque situation of the 
village, and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes, would often attract 
the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was 
a young officer, whose regiment had been recently quartered in 
the neighborhood. He was charmed with the native taste that 
pervaded this village pageant ; but, above all, with the dawning 
loveliness of the queen of May. It was the village favorite, who 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 



403 



was crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all the 
beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The artless- 
ness of rural habits enabled him readily to make her acquaint- 
ance ; he gradually won his way into her intimacy ; and paid his 
court to her in that unthinking way in which young officers are 
too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He 
never even talked of love : but there are modes of making it 
more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely and 
irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of voice, 
the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every word, and 
look, and action — these form the true eloquence of love, and can 
always be felt and understood, but never described. Can we 
wonder that they should readily win a heart, young, guileless, and 
susceptible ? As to her, she loved almost unconsciously ; she 
scarcely inquired what was the growing passion that was absorb- 
ing every thought and feeling, or what were to be its consequences. 
She, indeed, looked not to the future. When present, his looks 
and words occupied her whole attention; when absent, she 
thought but of what had passed at their recent interview. She 
would wander with him through the green lanes and rural scenes 
of the vicinity. He taught her to see new beauties in nature ; 
he talked in the language of polite and cultivated life, and 
breathed into her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between the 
sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure of 
her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his military attire, 
might at first have charmed her eye ; but it was not these that 
had captivated her heart. Her attachment had something in it 
of idolatry. She looked up to him as to a being of a superior 



404 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally 
delicate and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen percep- 
tion of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinctions of 
rank and fortune she thought nothing ; it was the difference of 
intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those of the rustic 
society to which she had been accustomed, that elevated him in 
her opinion. She w^ould listen to him with .charmed ear and 
downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek would mantle with 
enthusiasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid admi- 
ration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh and blush 
at the idea of her comparative unworthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his passion was 
mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the 
connection in levity ; for he had often heard his brother officers 
boast of their village conquests, and thought some triumph of the 
kind necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was 
too full of youthful fervor. His heart had not yet been rendered 
sufficiently cold and selfish by a wandering and a dissipated life : 
it caught fire from the very flame it sought to kindle ; and before 
he was aware of the nature of his situation, he became really in 
love. 

What was he to do ? There were the old obstacles which so 
incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank in 
life — the prejudices of titled connections — his dependence upon a 
proud and unyielding father — all forbad him to think of matri- 
mony : — but when he looked down upon this innocent being, so 
tender and confiding, there was a purity in her manners, a 
blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in her looks, 
that awed down every licentious feeling. In vain did he try to 
fortify himself by a thousand heartless examples of men of 



THE PRIDE OP THE VILLAGE. 



405 



fashion ; and to chill the glow of generous sentiment, with that 
cold derisive levity with which he had heard them talk of female 
virtue : whenever he came into her presence, she was still sur- 
rounded by that mysterious but impassive charm of virgin purity 
in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to the 
continent completed the confusion of his mind. He remained for 
a short time in a state of the most painful irresolution ; he hesi- 
tated to communicate the tidings, until the day for marching was 
at hand ; when he gave her the intelligence in the course of an 
evening ramble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It 
broke in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon 
it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the guile- 
less simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom, and kissed 
the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did he meet with a repulse, 
for there are moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness, which 
hallow the caresses of affection. He was naturally impetuous ; 
and the sight of beauty, apparently yielding in his arms, the 
confidence of his power over her, and the dread of losing her for 
ever, all conspired to overwhelm his better feelings — he ventured 
to propose that she should leave her home, and be the companion 
of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and faltered 
at his own baseness ; but so innocent of mind was liis intended 
victim, that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his meaning ; 
and why she should leave her native village, and the humble 
roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his proposal 
flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. She did 
not weep — she did not break forth into reproach — she said not a 



406 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



word — but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper ; gave him a 
look of anguish that pierced to his very soul ; and, clasping her 
hands in agony, fled, as if foi* refuge, to her father's cottage. 

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant. 
It is uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict of 
his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the bustle of 
departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and -new companions, 
soon dissipated his self-reproach, and stifled his tenderness ; yet, 
amidst the stir of camps the revelries of garrisons, the array of 
armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes 
steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and village simplicity — ^the 
white cottage — the footpath along the silver brook and up the 
hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid loitering along it, 
leaning on his arm, and listening to him with eyes beaming with 
unconscious afiection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruc- 
tion of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings and 
hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were suc- 
ceeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld 
from her window the march of the departing troops. She had 
seen her faithless lover borne off", as if in triumph, amidst the 
sound of drum and trumpet, and the pomp of arms. She strained 
a last aching gaze after him, as the morning sun glittered about 
his figure, and his plume waved in the breeze ; he passed away 
like a bright vision from her sight, and left her all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after story. 
It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She avoided society, 
and wandered out alone in the walks she had most frequented 
with her lover. She sought, like the stricken deer, to weep in 
silence and loneliness, and brood over the barbed sorrow that 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 



407 



rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an 
evening sitting in the porch of the village church ; and the milk- 
maids, returning from the fields, would now and then overhear 
her singing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. She 
became fervent in her devotions at church ; and as the old people 
saw her approach, so wasted away, yet with a hectic gloom, 
and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses round the form, 
they would make way for her, as for something spiritual, and, 
looking after her, would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but 
looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that had 
bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no 
more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had 
entertained resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. 
She was incapable of angry passions ; and, in a moment of sad- 
dened tenderness, she penned him a farewell letter. It was 
couched in the simplest language, but touching from its veiy 
simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and did not conceal 
from him that his conduct was the cause. She even depicted the 
sufferings which she had experienced ; but concluded with say- 
ing, that she could not die in peace, until she had sent him her 
forgiveness and her blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined, that she could no longer 
leave the gottage.. She could only totter to the window, where, 
propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and 
look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, nor 
imparted to any one the malady that was preying on her heart. 
She never even mentioned her lover's name ; but would lay her 
head on her mother's bosom and weep in silence. Her poor 
parents hung, in mute anxiety, over this fading blossom of their 



408 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



hopes, still flattering themselves that it might again revive to 
freshness, and that the bright unearthly bloom which sometimes 
flushed her cheek might be the promise of returning health. 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday after- 
noon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown 
open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance 
of the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands had trained 
round the window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible : it 
spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of heaven: 
it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through her bosom. 
Her eye was fixed on the distant village church ; the bell had 
tolled for the evening service ; the last villager was lagging into 
the porch ; and every thing had sunk into that hallowed stillness 
peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her 
with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so 
rouglily over some faces, had given to hers the expression of a 
seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye. — Was she think- 
ing of her faithless lover ? — or were her thoughts wandering to 
that distant church-yard, into whose bosom she might soon be 
gathered ? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman galloped 
to the cottage — ^he dismounted before the window — the poor girl 
gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her chair : it was her 
repentant lover ! He rushed into the house, and flew to clasp her 
to his bosom ; but her wasted form — her deathlike countenance 
— so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation, — smote him to the soul, 
and he threw himself in agony at her feet. She was too faint to 
rise — she attempted to extend her trembling hand — ^her lips moved 
as if she spoke, but no word was articulated — she looked down 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 



409 



upon him with a smile of unutterable tenderness, — and closed her 
eyes for ever ! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village story. 
They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little novelty to 
recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident 
and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insignifi- 
cant^ but they interested me strongly at the time ; and, taken in 
connection with the affecting ceremony which I had just witnessed, 
left a deeper impression on ray mind than many circumstances of 
a more striking nature. I have passed through the place since, 
and visited the church again, from a better motive than mere 
curiosity. It was a wintry evening ; the trees were stripped of 
their foliage ; the church-yard looked naked and mournful, and the 
wind rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, 
had been planted about the grave of the village favorite, and 
osiers were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. 

The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung 
the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the fune- 
ral : the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have 
been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen 
many monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken 
the sympathy of the spectator, but I have met with none that 
spoke more touchingly to my heart, than this simple but delicate 
memento of departed innocence. 



18 



THE ANGLER. 



This day dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, 

And birds had drawn their valentine? 

The jealous trout that low did lie. 

Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood ray friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Sir H. Wotton. 



It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away 
from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring life, from read- 
ing the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I suspect that, in like 
manner, many of those worthy gentlemen who are given to haunt 
the sides of pastoral streams with angle rods in hand, may trace 
the origin of their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak 
Walton. I recollect studying his " Complete Angler" several 
years since, in company with a knot of friends in America, and 
moreover that we were all completely bitten with the angling 
mania. It was early in the year ; but as soon as the weather 
was auspicious, and that the spring began to melt into the verge 
of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the country, as 
stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading books of 
chivalry. 



412 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



One of our party had equaled the Don in the fuUness of his 
equipments : being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. He wore 
a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred 
pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters ; a basket 
slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod, a landing net, and a score 
of other inconveniences, only to be found in the true angler's ar- 
mory. Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of 
stare and wonderment among the country folk, who had never 
seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La Mancha 
among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the high- 
lands of the Hudson ; a most unfortunate place for the execution 
of those piscatory tactics wliich had been invented along the 
velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those 
wild streams that lavish, among our romantic solitudes, un- 
heeded beauties, enough to fill the sketch book of a hunter of the 
picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down rocky shelves, 
making small cascades, over which the trees threw their broad 
balancing sprays, and long nameless weeds hung in fringes from 
the impending banks, dripping Avith diamond drops. Sometimes 
it would brawl and fret along a ravine in the matted shade of a 
forest, filling it with murmurs ; and, after this termagant career, 
would steal forth into open day with the most placid demure face 
imaginable ; as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, 
after filling her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling 
out of doors, swimming and curtsying, and smiling upon all the 
world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times, 
through some bosom of green meadow-land among the mountains ; 
where the quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tinkling 



THE ANGLER. 413 



of a bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the sound of a 
woodcutter's axe from the neighboring forest. 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport 
that required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled 
above half an hour before I had completely " satisfied the senti- 
ment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opin- 
ion, that angling is something like poetry — a man must be born 
to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish ; tangled my hne in 
every tree ; lost my bait ; broke my rod ; until I gave up the 
attempt in despair, and passed the day under the trees, reading 
old Izaak ; satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest sim- 
plicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and not the 
passion for angling. My companions, however, were more per- 
severing in their delusion. I have them at this moment before 
my eyes, stealing along the border of the brook, where it lay 
open to the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I 
see the bittern rising with hollow scream as they break in upon 
his rarely -invaded haunt ; the kingfisher watching them suspi- 
ciously from his dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill-pond, 
in the gorge of the hills; the tortoise letting himself slip side- 
ways from off the stone or log on which he is sunning him- 
self; and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they 
approach, and spreading an alarm throughout the watery world 
around. 

I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and creeping 
about for the greater parter part of a day, with scarcely any suc- 
cess, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country 
urchin came down from the hills with a rod made from a branch 
of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help me ! 
I believe, a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm 



414 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



— and in half an hour caught more fish than we had nibbles 
throughout the day ! 

But, above all, I recollect the " good, honest, wholesome, hun- 
gry " repast, which we made under a beech-tree, just by a spring 
of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill ; and how, 
when it was over, one of the party read old Izaak Walton's scene 
with the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in a 
bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. All this may appear 
like mere egotism ; yet I cannot refrain from uttering these recol- 
lections, which are passing like a strain of music over my miud^ 
and have been called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed 
not long since. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beau- 
tiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills and 
throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group 
seated on the margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of a 
veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an 
old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very much but very 
carefully patched, betokening poverty, honestly come by, and de- 
cently maintained. His face bore the marks of former storms, 
but present fair weather ; its furrows had been worn into an ha- 
bitual smile ; his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had 
altogether the good-humored air of a constitutional philosopher 
who was disposed to take the world as it went. One of his com- 
panions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant 
poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any gentleman's 
fish-pond in the neighborhood in the darkest night. The other 
was a tall, awkward, country lad, with a lounging gait, and ap- 
parently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was busy in 
examining the maw of a trout which he had just killed, to discover 




J">r)ev 



THE ANGLER. 



415 



k 



by its contents what insects were seasonable for bait ; and was 
lecturing on the subject to his companions, who appeared to listen 
with infinite deference. I have a kind feeling towards all 
" brothers of the angle," ever since I read Izaak Walton. They 
are men, he affii'ms, of a " mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit ;" 
and my esteem for them has been increased since I met with an 
old " Tretyse of fishing with the Angle," in which are set forth 
many of the maxims of their inoffensive fraternity. " Take good 
hede," sayeth this honest little tretyse, "that in going about 
your disportes ye open no man's gates but that ye shet them 
again. Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for no 
covetousness to the encreasing and sparing of your money only, 
but principally for your solace, and to cause the helth of your 
body and specyally of your soule."* 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before 
me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a cheer- 
ful contentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards him. 
I could not but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped 
from one part of the brook to another ; waving his rod in the 
air, to keep the line from dragging on the ground, or catching 
among the bushes ; and the adroitness with which he would 
throw his fly to any particular place ; sometimes skimming it 
lightly along a little rapid ; sometimes casting it into one of those 

* From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more industri- 
ous and devout employment than it is generally considered. — " For when ye 
purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye will not desyre greatlye many 
persons with you, which might let you of your game. And that ye may serve 
God devoutly in sayinge effectually your customable prayers. And thus do- 
ying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydelnes, which is princi- 
pall cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right well known." 



416 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank, in which 
the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he was giving 
instructions to his two disciples; showing them the manner in 
which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them 
along the surface of the stream. The scene brought to my mind 
the instructions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The country 
around was of that pastoral kind which Walton is fond of 
describing. It was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close 
by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior 
Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. 
The day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and sun- 
shiny, with now and then a soft-dropping shower, that sowed the 
whole earth with diamonds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was 
so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving instructions 
in his art, I kept company with him almost the whole day ; wan- 
dering along the banks of the stream, and listening to his talk. 
He was very communicative, having all the easy garrulity of 
cheerful old age ; and I fancy was a little flattered by having an 
opportunity of displaying his piscatory lore ; for who does not 
like now and then to play the sage ? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed 
some years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, 
where he had entered into trade and had been ruined by the 
indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards experienced many 
ups and downs in life, until he got into the navy, where his leg 
was carried away by a cannon ball, at the battle of Camperdown. 
This was the only stroke of real good fortune he had ever expe- 
rienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with some small 
paternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly forty 



THE ANGLER. 



417 



pounds. On this he retired to his native village, where he lived 
quietly and independently ; and devoted the remainder of his life 
to the " noble art of angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he 
seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent 
good humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted about the 
world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and 
beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different 
countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and 
thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kindness, 
appearing to look only on the good side of things : and, above all, 
he was almost the only man I had ever met with who had been 
an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had honesty and 
magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own door, and not to 
curse the country. The lad that was receiving his instructions, I 
learnt, was the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow who 
kept the village inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, 
and much courted by the idle gentleman-like personages of the 
place. In taking him under his care, therefore, th^ old man had 
probably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, and an 
occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling, if we could forget, 
which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted 
on worms and insects, that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit, 
and a pure serenity of mind. As the English are methodical 
even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, 
it has been reduced among them to perfect rule and systerfti' 
Indeed it is an amusement peculiarly adapted lio the mild and 
highly-cultivated scenery of England, where every roughness has 



been softened away from the landscape. 

18* 



It is delio;htful to saun- 




418 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



ter along those limpid streams which wander, like veins of silver, 
through the bosom of this beautiful country ; leading one through 
a diversity of small home scenery ; sometimes winding through 
ornamented grounds; sometimes brimming along through rich 
pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled with sweet-smelling 
flowers ; sometimes venturing in sight of villages and hamlets, 
and then running capriciously away into shady retirements. The 
sweetness and serenity of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of 
the sport, gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing ; which are 
now and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the 
distant whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish, 
leaping out of the still water, and skimming transiently about 
its glassy surface. " When I would beget content," says Izaak 
Walton, " and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and 
providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some 
ghding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, 
and those very many other little living creatures that are not only 
created, but feed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the 
God of nature, and therefore trust in him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those 
ancient champions of angling, which breathes the same innocent 
and happy spirit : 



Let me live harmlessly, and near the b.rmk 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place. 
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink. 

With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace ; 
And on the world and my Creator think : 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace ; 
And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 



THE ANGLER. 



419 



Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 

And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill ; 
So I the fields and meadows green may view. 

And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 
Among the daisies and the violets blue. 

Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.* 

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place of 
abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the village 
a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. 
I found him living in a small cottage, containing only one room, 
but a perfect curiosity in its method and arrangement. It was on 
the skirts of the village, on a green bank, a little back from the 
road, with a small garden in front, stocked with kitchen herbs, 
and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the cottage 
was overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a 
weather-cock. The interior was fitted up in a truly nautical 
style, his ideas of comfort and convenience having been acquired 
on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. A hammock was slung from 
the ceiling, which, in the daytime, was lashed up so as to take 
but little room. From the centre of the chamber hung a model 
of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, 
and a large sea-chest, formed the principal movables. About 
the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as Admiral Hosier's 
Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom Bowling, intermingled with 
pictures of sea-fights, among which the battle of Camperdown 
held a distinguished place. The mantel-piece was decorated with 
sea-shells ; over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood- 
cuts of most bitter-looking naval commanders. His implements 



* J. Davors. 



420 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



for angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the 
room. On a shelf was arranged his library, containing a work 
on angling, much worn, a Bible covered with canvas, an odd 
volume or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, and a book of 
songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and a 
parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated himself, in 
the course of one of his voyages ; and which uttered a variety of 
sea phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of a veteran boatswain. 
The establishment reminded me of that of the renowned Robinson 
Crusoe ; it was kept in neat order, every thing being " stowed 
away " with the regularity of a ship of war ; and he informed 
me that he "scoured the deck every morning, and swept it 
between meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his 
pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly 
on the threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolu- 
tions in an iron rinof that swunoj in the centre of his cage. He 

Co o 

had been angling all day, and gave me a history of his sport with 
as much minuteness as a general would tallt over a campaign ; 
being particularly animated in relating the manner in which he had 
taken a large trout, which had completely tasked all his skill and 
wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of 
the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age ; 
and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tempest-tost 
through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the 
evening of his days ! His happiness, however, sprung from 
within himself, and was independent of external circumstances ; 



THE ANGLER. 



421 



for he had that inexhaustible goodnature, which is the most precious 
gift of Heaven ; spreading itself like oil over the troubled sea of 
thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable in the rough- 
est weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learnt that he was a univer- 
sal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tap-room ; where 
he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sinbad, aston- 
ished them with his stories of strange lands, and shipwrecks, and 
sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of 
the neighborhood ; had taught several of them the art of angling ; 
and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor 
of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed 
about the neighboring streams, when the weather and season were 
favorable ; and at other times he employed himself at home, pre- 
paring his fishing tackle for the next campaign, or manufacturing 
rods, nets, and flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he 
generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his 
particular request that when he died he should be buried in a 
green spot, which he could see from his seat in church, and which 
he had marked out ever since he was a boy, and had thought of 
when far from home on the raging sea, in danger of being food 
for the fishes — it was the spot where his father and mother had 
been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; but 
I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy 
"brother of the angle;" who has made me more than ever in 
love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in the 
practice of his art : and I will conclude this rambling sketch in 



422 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing ot 
St. Peter's master upon my reader, " and upon all that are true 
lovers of virtue ; and dare trust in his providence ; and be quiet ; 
and go a angling." 



f 



i 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

POUND AMONG THE PAPERS OP THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICK- 
ERBOCKER. 



A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye , 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 



In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the 
eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river 
denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, 
and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored 
the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a 
small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greens- ' 
burgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the 
name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in 
former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, 
from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about 
the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not 
vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being 
precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about 
two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among 



424 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. 
A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull 
one to repose ; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping 
of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in 
upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel- 
shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that- shades one side 
of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time, when all 
nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my 
own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was pro- 
longed and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should 
wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its 
distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled 
life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar cha- 
racter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original 
Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the 
name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the 
Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A 
drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to 
pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was be- 
witched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the 
settlement ; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizai'd 
of liis tribe, held his powwows there before the country was dis- 
covered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place 
still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds 
a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk 
in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvel- 
ous beliefs ; are subject to trances and visions ; and frequently 
see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



425 



whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and 
twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across 
the valley than in any other part of the country, and the night- 
mare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite 
scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted re- 
gion, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of 
the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. 
It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose 
head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless 
battle during the revolutionary war ; and who is ever and anon 
seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, 
as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to 
the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and espe- 
cially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, 
certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have 
been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concern- 
ing this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper, having been 
burled in the church-yard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of 
battle in nightly quest of his head ; and that the rushing speed with 
which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight 
blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back 
to the church-yard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of tliis legendary superstition, 
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that 
region of shadows ; and the spectre is known, at all the country 
fi.resides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy 
Hollow^. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have men- 
tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but 



r 



426 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a 
time. However wide awake they may have been before they 
entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to 
inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imagi- 
native — to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for it is 
in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here 'and there embo- 
somed in the great state of New- York, that population, manners, 
and customs, remain fixed ; while the great torrent of migration 
and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in 
other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. 
They are like those little nooks of still water which border a 
rapid stream; where we may see the straw and bubble riding 
quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, 
undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many 
years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy 
Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same 
trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote period of 
American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy 
wight of the name of Ichabod Crane ; who sojourned, or, as he 
expressed it, "tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of 
instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of 
Connecticut ; a state which supplies the Union with pioneers for 
the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its 
legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The 
cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was 
tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and 
legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might 
have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 



42- 



together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, 
large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked 
like a weather-cock, perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which 
way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a 
hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering 
about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine 
descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a 
cornfield. 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely 
constructed of logs ; the windows partly glazed, and partly 
patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously 
secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the 
door, and stakes set against the window-shutters ; so that, though 
a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embar- 
rassment in getting out ; an idea most probably borrowed by the 
architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot. 
The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, 
just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by^ 
and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. From 
hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their 
lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum 
of a bee-hive ; interrupted now and then by the authoritative 
voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command ; or, per- 
adventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some 
tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to 
say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the 
golden maxim, " Spare the rod and spoil the child." — Ichabod 
Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of 
those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of their 



428 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



subjects ; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimi- 
nation rather than severity ; taking the burthen off the backs of 
the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny 
stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed 
by with mdulgence ; but the claims of justice were satisfied by 
inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, 
broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew 
dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called " doing 
his duty by their parents ;" and he never inflicted a chastisement 
without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the 
smarting urchin, that " he would remember it and thank him for 
it the longest day he had to live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the companion 
and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday afternoons 
would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to 
have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the 
comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved him to keep ou 
good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school 
was small, and would have been scarcely sufiicient to furnish him 
with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had 
the dilating powers of an anaconda ; but to help out his mainte- 
nance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded 
and lodged at the houses of the farmers, whose children he in- 
structed. With these he lived successively a week at a time ; 
thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly 
effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his 
rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a 
grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had vari- 
ous ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



429 



assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their 
farms ; helped to make hay ; mended the fences ; took the horses 
to water ; drove the cows from pasture ; and cut wood for the 
winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and 
absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the 
school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He 
found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the children, 
particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold, which whilom 
so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child 
on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours 
together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master 
of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by 
instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no 
little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his station in front of the 
church gallery, wnth a band of chosen singers ; where, in his own 
mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. 
Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the 
congregation ; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in 
that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite 
to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, 
which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of 
Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little make-shifts, in that inge- 
nious way which is commonly denominated "by hook and by 
crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was 
thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, 
to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in 
the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being considered a 
kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior taste 



430 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



and accomplisliments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, 
inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, there- 
fore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farm- 
house, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or 
sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our 
man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of 
all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in 
the church-yard, between services on Sundays ! gathering grapes 
for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees ; 
reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; 
or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the 
adjacent mill-pond; while the more bashful country bumpkins 
hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and ad- 
dress. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of traveling 
gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to 
house ; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfac- 
tion. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of 
great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and 
was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's History of New Eng- 
land Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and po- 
tently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and 
simple credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and his pow- 
ers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both had 
been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No 
tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It 
was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the after- 
noon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the 
little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and there con 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 



431 



over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of the 
evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. 
Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful 
woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, 
every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited 
imagination : the moan of the whip-poor-will* from the hill-side ; 
the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm ; the 
dreary hooting of the screech-owl or the sudden rustling in the 
thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, 
which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then 
startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across 
his path ; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came 
winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was 
ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with 
a witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either to 
drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; 
— and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their 
doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing his 
nasal melody, " in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from 
the distant hill, or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long 
winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning 
by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along 
the hearth, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts and gob- 
lins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges,, 
and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, 
or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called 
him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witch- 



* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives 
its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. 



132 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



craft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds 
in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut ; 
and would frighten them wofullj with speculations upon comets 
and shooting stars ; and with the alarming fact that the world did 
absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy- 
turvy ! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling 
in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy 
glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spec- 
tre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors 
of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and 
shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a 
snowy night ! — With what wistful look did he eye every trembling 
ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant 
window ! — How often was he appalled by some shrub covered 
Avith snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path ! — 
How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his 
own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet ; and dread to look 
over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being 
tramping close behind him ! — and how often was he thrown into 
complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, 
in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly 
'scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms 
of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though he had seen many 
spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in 
divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an 
end to all these evils ; and he would have passed a pleasant life 
of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, if his path had 
not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



433 



man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put 
together, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in 
each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina 
Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch 
farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; plump as a 
partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her 
father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, 
but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, 
as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of 
ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. 
She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great- 
great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam ; the tempt- 
ing stomacher of the olden time ; and withal a provokingly short 
petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country 
round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex ; 
and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon 
found favor in his eyes ; more especially after he had visited her 
in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect 
picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He sel- 
dom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the 
boundaries of his own farm ; but within those every thing was 
snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his 
wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty 
abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His strong- 
hold wag situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those 
green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so 
fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches 
over it ; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest 

19 



434 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



and sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a barrel ; and then 
stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, 
that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by 
the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a 
church ; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting 
forth with the treasures of the farm ; the flail was busily resound- 
ing within it from morning to night ; swallows and martins skim- 
med twittering about the eaves ; and rows of pigeons, some with 
one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their 
heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others 
swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoy- 
ing the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were 
grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens ; whence sal- 
lied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the 
air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an ad- 
joining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks ; regiments of 
turkeys were gobbling through the farm-yard, and guinea fowls 
fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish 
discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, 
that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clap- 
ping his burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness 
of his heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and 
then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and 
children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon his sump- 
tuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind's 
eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with 
a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth ; the pigeons 
were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with 
a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gravy : 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



435 



and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples_, 
with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he 
saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing 
ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its 
gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory 
sausages ; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on 
his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that 
quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled 
his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of 
wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards 
burthened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement 
of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to in- 
herit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, 
how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money 
invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in 
the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, 
and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family 
of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household 
trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld 
himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting 
out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was 
complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high- 
ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down 
from the first Dutch settlers ; the low projecting eaves forming a 
piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. 
Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husban- 
dry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were 
built along the sides for summer use ; and a great spinning-wheel 



136 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to 
which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza 
the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre 
of the mansion and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of 
resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. 
In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun ; in 
another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from tjie loom ; ears of 
Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay 
festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; 
and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where 
the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like mir- 
rors ; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glis- 
tened from their covert of asparagus tops ; mock oranges and 
conch-shells decorated the mantel-piece ; strings of various-colored 
birds' eggs were suspended above it ; a great ostrich egg was 
hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, know- 
ingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and 
well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions 
of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only 
study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of 
Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real diffi- 
culties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, 
who seldom had any thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, 
and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend with ; and 
had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and 
walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart 
was confined ; all which he achieved as easily as a man would 
carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie ; and then the lady 
gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the con- 



THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



.437 



trary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, be- 
set with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were for ever 
presenting new difficulties and impediments ; and he had to en- 
counter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the 
numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart ; 
keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to 
fly out in the common cause against any new competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, royster- 
ing blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch 
abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, 
which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was 
broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, 
and a bluff, but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air 
of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great 
powers of limb, he had received the nickname of Brom Bones, 
by which he was universally known. He was famed for great 
knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dextrous on horse- 
back as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock-fights ; 
and, with the ascendency which bodily strength acquires in rustic 
life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and 
giving his decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay 
or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic ; but 
had more mischief than ill-will in his composition ; and, with all 
his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish 
good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, 
who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he 
scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment 
for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur 
cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when the folks at 
a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, 




438 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



whisking about among a squad of hard riders, thej always stood hy 
for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along 
past the farmhouses at midnight, with hoop and halloo, like a troop 
of Don Cossacks ; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, 
would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered 
by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his 
gang!" The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, 
admiration, and good will ; and when any madcap prank, or rustic 
brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and war- 
ranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the bloom- 
ing Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though 
his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and 
endearments of a bear, , yet it was whispered that she did not 
altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were 
signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to 
cross a lion in his amours ; insomuch, that when his horse was 
seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign 
that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking," 
within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war 
into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had 
to contend, a,nd, considering all things, a stouteF^man than he 
would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would 
have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability 
and perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a 
supple-jack — yielding, but tough : though he bent, he never 
broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, 
the moment it was away — jerk ! he was as erect, and carried his 
head as high as ever. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



439 



To have taken the field openlj against his rival would have 
been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his 
amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, 
therefore, made his advances in a j:iuiet and gently -insinuating 
manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he 
made frequent visits at the farmhouse ; not that he had any 
thing to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, 
which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait 
Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul ; he loved his daughter 
better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an 
excellent father, let her have her way in every thing. His nota- 
ble little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeep- 
ing and manage her poultry ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks 
and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls 
can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled 
about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the 
piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the 
other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, 
armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the 
wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod 
would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the 
spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, 
that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and 
won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admi- 
ration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of 
access ; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be cap- 
tured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill 
to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to 
maintain possession of the latter, for a man must battle for his 



440 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand 
common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who 
keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a 
hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable 
Brom Bones ; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his 
advances, the interests of the former evidently declined ; his 
horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on. Sunday nights, 
and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor 
of Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have settled 
their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most 
concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore — by 
single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior 
might of his adversary to enter the lists against him : he had 
overheard a boast of Bones, that he would " double the school- 
master up, and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house ;" and 
he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was some- 
thing extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; it 
left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic 
waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes 
upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical perse- 
cution to Bones, and his gang of rough riders. They harried his 
hitherto peaceful domains ; smoked out his singing school, by 
stopping up the chimney ; broke into the school-house at night, 
in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, 
and turned every thing topsy-turvy : so that the poor schoolmas- 
ter began to think all the witches in the country held their meet- 
ings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all 
opportunities of turning hiin into ridicule in presence of his mis- 



\ 



,1 lipiO^^ ul"''"l'"*t' ,1 ,'!,,,, 'l»„l„ 




THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



441 



tress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the 
most hidicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to 
instruct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters Avent on for some time, without producing 
any material effect on the relative situation of the contending 
powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive 
mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usually watched 
all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he 
swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of jus- 
tice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to 
evil doers ; while on the desk before him might be seen sundry 
contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the 
persons of idle urchins ; such as half-munched apples, popguns, 
whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper 
game-cocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of 
justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent 
upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye 
kept upon the master ; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned 
throughout the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted by the 
appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round- 
crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted 
on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed 
with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the 
school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry- 
making, or " quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer 
Van Tassel's ; and having delivered his message with that air of 
importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to 
display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, 
and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the impor- 
tance and hurry of his mission. 

19* 



442 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



1 



All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-room. 
The scholars were hurried through their lessons, without stopping 
at trifles ; those who were nimble skipped over half with impu- 
nity, and those who Avere tardy, had a smart application now and 
then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over a tall 
word. Books were flung aside without being put away on the 
shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and 
the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, 
bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing 
about the green, in joy at their early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at 
his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only 
suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken 
looking-glass, that hung up in the school-house. That he might 
make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a 
cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was 
domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van 
Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight- 
errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the 
true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and 
equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode 
was a broken-down plough-horse, that had outlived almost every 
thing but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a 
ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his rusty mane and tail 
were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, 
and was glaring and spectral ; but the other had the gleam of a 
genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in 
his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. 
He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric 
Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very 



THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 443 



probably, some of liis own spirit into the animal ; for, old and 
broken down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil 
in him than in any young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with 
short stirrups, which bj'ought his knees nearly up to the pommel 
of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he 
carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, 
as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the 
flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top 
of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called ; 
and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's 
tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they 
shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was alto- 
gether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad 
dayhght. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear 
and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which 
we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests 
had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the 
tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of 
orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began 
to make their appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squir- 
rel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, 
and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neigh- 
boring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the 
fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, 
from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very pro- 
fusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock- 
robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud 



444 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



querulous note ; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable 
clouds ; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson 
crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the 
cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little 
monteiro cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, 
in his gay light-blue coat and white under clothes ; screaming and 
chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to 
be on good terms with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to 
every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over 
the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store 
of apples ; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees ; 
some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market ; others 
heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld 
great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from 
their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and 
hasty pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, 
turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample 
prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; and anon he passed the 
fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and 
as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty 
slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by 
the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and " su- 
gared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of 
hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the 
mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk 
doAvn into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay 
motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle un- 
dulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant 



THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



445 



mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a 
breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden 
tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from that 
into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered 
on the woody crests of the precipices that overliung some parts 
of the river, giving greater depth to the dark-gi*ay and purple of 
their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping 
slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the 
mast ; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still 
water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of 
the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride 
and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leath- 
ern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, 
huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk with- 
ered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted shortgowns, 
homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico 
pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as anti- 
quated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine 
riband, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innova- 
tion. The sons, in short square-skirted coats with rows of stu- 
pendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the 
fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin 
for the purpose, it being esteemed, throughout the country, as a 
potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having 
come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, 
like himself, full of metal and mischief, and which no one but 
himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring 
vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider 




tiiaiMiiM 



446 THE SKETCH BOOK. 



in constant risk of his neck, for lie held a tractable well-broken 

horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that 

burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the 

state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of 

buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white ; but 

the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the | 

sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes j 

of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experi- l 

enced Dutch housewives ! There was the doughty dough-nut, the ^ i 

tenderer oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller ; sweet I 

cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the 

whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies and 

peach pies and pumpkin pies ; besides slices of ham and smoked 

beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and 

i 
peaches, and pears, and quinces ; not to mention broiled shad and 

roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk and cream, all 

mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated 

them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapor 

from the midst — Heaven bless the mark ! I want breath and ! 

time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to 

get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so 

great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every 

dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in 

proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer ; and whose 

spirits rose with eating as some men's do with drink. He could 

not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and 

chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all 

this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



447 



he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school- 
house ; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and 
every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue 
out of doors that should dare to call him comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a 
face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly as the 
harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expres- 
sive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, 
a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to " fall to, and help them- 
selves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or 
hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray- 
headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neigh- 
borhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as 
old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he 
scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movement 
of the bow with a motion of the head ; bowing almost to the 
ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were 
to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his 
vocal powers. Xot a limb, not a fibre about him was idle ; and 
to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering 
about the room, you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that 
blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. 
He was the admiration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, 
of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood 
forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and win- 
dow, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, 
and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could 
the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous ? 



448 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



the lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling 
graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, 
sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in 
one corner. 

When the dance Avas at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a 
knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at 
one end of the piazza, gossiping over former tipaes, and drawing 
out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was 
one of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle 
and great men. The British and American line had run near it 
during the war ; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, 
and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chi- 
valry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller 
to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the in- 
distinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every 
exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded 
Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old 
iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst 
at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who 
shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly men- 
tioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent mas- 
ter of defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, inso- 
much that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance 
off at the hilt : in proof of which, he was ready at any time to 
show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several 
more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom 
but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing 
the war to a happy termination. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



449 ! 



But all these were notliing to the tales of ghosts and appari- 
tions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary 
treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in 
these sheltered long-settled retreats ; but are trampled under foot 
by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our 
country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in 
most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish 
their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their 
surviving friends have traveled away from the neighborhood ; so 
that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have 
no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason 
why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established 
Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super- 
natural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity 
of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that 
blew from that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere 
of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the 
Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, 
were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal 
tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wail- 
ings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate 
Major Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. 
Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted 
the dark glen at Eaven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on 
winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. 
The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite 
spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been 
heard several times of late, patrolling the country ; and, it was said, 
tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the church-yard. 



450 



THE SKETCH BOOK, 



The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have 
made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, 
surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its 
decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian 
purity, beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle 
slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by 
high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills 
of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the 
sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at 
least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church 
extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook 
among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep 
black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly 
thrown a wooden bridge ; the road that led to it, and the bridge 
itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a 
gloom about it, even in the daytime ; but occasioned a fearful 
darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the 
headless horseman ; and the place where he was most frequently 
encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical 
disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from 
his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind 
him ; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and 
swamp, until they reached the bridge ; when the horseman sud- 
denly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, 
and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous 
adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping Hes- 
sian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on returning one 
night from the neighboring village of Sing-Sing, he had been 
overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that he had offered to race 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 451 



with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for 
Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but, just as they came 
to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash 
of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men 
talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and 
then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep 
in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large ex- 
tracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many 
marvelous events that had taken place in his native state of Con- 
necticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks 
about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered 
together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some 
time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. 
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite 
swains, and their light-hearted laughter, minghng with the clatter 
of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and 
fainter until they gradually died away — and the late scene of 
noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lin- 
gered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have 
a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on 
the high road to success. "What passed at this interview I will 
not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, how- 
ever, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied 
forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and 
chop-fallen — Oh these women ! these women ! Could that girl 
have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks ? — Was her 
encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure 
her conquest of his rival ? — Heaven only knows, not I ! — Let it 



452 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had 
been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. With- 
out looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, 
on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, 
and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most 
uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was 
soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of coru. and oats, and 
whole valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy- 
hearted, and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along the 
sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which 
he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as 
divsmal as himself Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its 
dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall 
mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the 
dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the 
watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so 
vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this 
faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn 
crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far 
off, from some farmhouse away among the hills — but it was like 
a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, 
but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the 
guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if 
sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the 
afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night 
grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the 
sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. 
He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, ap 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



453 



proaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost 
stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enor- 
mous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other 
trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its 
limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large enough to form trunks 
for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising 
again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of 
the unfortunate Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by ; 
and was universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree. 
The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and 
superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred 
namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful 
lamentations told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle : 
he thought his whistle was answered — it was but a blast sweep- 
ing sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little 
nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst 
of the tree — he paused and ceased whistling ; but on looking 
more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had 
been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Sud- 
denly he heard a groan — his teeth chattered and his knees smote 
against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge bough 
upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He 
passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed 
the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known 
by the name of Wiley's swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by 
side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the 
road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chest- 
nuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom 



454 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



over it. To pass this bridge was the severest triah It was at 
this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and 
under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy 
yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been 
considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the 
schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump ; he 
summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a 
score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across 
the bridge ; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old ani- 
mal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the 
fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the 
reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot : 
it was all in vain ; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to 
plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles 
and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip 
and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed 
forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the 
bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling 
over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side 
of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark 
shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld some- 
thing huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but 
seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster 
ready to spring upon the traveler. 

The hair of the aifrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with 
terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was now too 
late ; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or 
goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the 
wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he de- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 455 



manded in stammering accents — " Who are you ?" He received 
no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. 
Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of 
the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with 
involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy 
object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a 
bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the 
night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might 
now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horse- 
man of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of pow- 
erful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but 
kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind 
side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and 
wayA^ardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight compan- 
ion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with 
the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of 
leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse 
to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, think- 
ing to lag behind — the other did the same. His heart began to 
sink within him ; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but 
his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could 
not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dog- 
ged silence of this pertinacious companion, that was mysterious 
and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting 
a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in 
relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, 
Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! — 
but his horror was still more increased, on observing that the 
head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried 



\ 



456 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



before him on the pommel of the saddle : his terror rose to despe- 
ration ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, 
hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip — 
but the spectre started full jump with him. Away then they 
dashed, through thick and thin ; stones flying, and sparks flashing, 
at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, 
as he stretched his long lank body away over his. horse's head, in 
the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, 
instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged 
headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy 
hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it 
crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells 
the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an 
apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got half way 
through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt 
it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and en- 
deavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had just time to save 
himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the 
saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by 
his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's 
wrath passed across his mind — for it was his Sunday saddle ; but 
this was no time for petty fears ; the goblin was hard on his 
haunches ; and (unskillful rider that he was !) he had much ado 
to maintain his seat ; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes 
on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's 
back bone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him 
asunder. 



THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



457 



An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that 
the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a 
silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not 
mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under 
the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones' 
ghostly competitor had disappeared. " If I can but reach that 
bridge," thought Ichabod, " I am safe." Just then he heard the 
black steed panting and blowing close behind him ; he even fan- 
cied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the 
ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge ; he thundered 
over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and 
now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should 
vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just 
then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act 
of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the 
horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a 
tremendous crash — he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and 
Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like 
a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, 
and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at 
his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at break- 
fast — dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at 
the school-house, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook ; 
but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some 
uneasiness about thp fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An 
inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came 
upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church 
was found the saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of horses' 
hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, 

20 



458 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad 
part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found 
the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered 
pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster 
was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his 
estate, examined the bundle which contained all hip worldly effects. 
They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck ; 
a pair or two of worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy small- 
clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes, full of dog's ears ; 
and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the 
school-house, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton 
Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a 
book of dreams and fortune-telling ; in which last was a sheet of 
foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to 
make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. 
These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned 
to the flames by Hans Van Kipper ; who from that time forward 
determined to send his children no more to school ; observing, 
that he never knew any good come of this same reading and 
writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he 
had received his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must 
have had about his person at the time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church 
on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were col- 
lected in the church-yard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the 
hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of 
Bones, and a whole budget of others, were called to mind ; and 
when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them 
with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



459 



and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by 
the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's 
debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him : the school 
was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pe- 
dagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New- York on 
a visit several years after, and from whom this account of the 
ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence 
that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that he had left the neighbor- 
hood, partly through fear of the gobhn and Hans Van Ripper, 
and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by 
the heiress ; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of 
the country ; had kept school and studied law at the same time ; 
had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, 
written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice 
of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones too, who shortly after his 
rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph 
to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever 
the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a 
hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some 
to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose 
to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of 
these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away 
by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story often told about 
the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge be- 
came more than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may 
be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as 
to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The 
school-house being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported 



460 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and 
the plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has 
often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm 
tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 



POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 

The preceding Tale is given, almost in tlie precise words in 
which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient 
city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and 
most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, 
gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly 
humorous face; and one whom I strongly suspected of being 
poor, — he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story 
was concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, par- 
ticularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep 
the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry- 
looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained 
a grave and rather severe face throughout : now and then folding 
his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as 
if turning a doubt over in his mind. He w^as one of your wary 
men, who never laugh, but upon good grounds — when they have 
reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of the lest 
of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned 
one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the other a-kimbo, 
demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head, 
and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, 
and what it went to prove ? 




'■L^iL 



't'V ■ 



462 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his 
lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked 
at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the 
glass slowly to the table, observed, that the story was intended 
most logically to prove : — 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as w,e find it : 

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is 
likely to have rough riding of it. 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand 
of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the 
state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after 
this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the 
syllogism ; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him 
with something of a triumphant leer. At length, he observed, 
that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little 
on the extravagant — there were one or two points on which he 
had his doubts. 

" Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, '•' as to that matter, I 
don't believe one-half of it myself." 

D. K 



L'ENVOT. 



Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to caD, 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Mercie. 



In concluding a second volume of tlie Sketch Book, the Author 
cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with which 
his first has been received, and of the liberal disposition that has 
been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. Even the 
critics, whatever may be said of them by others, he has found to 
be a singularly gentle and good-natured race ; it is true that each 
has in turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these 
individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would amount 
almost to a total condemnation of his work ; but then he has been 
consoled by observing, that what one has particularly censured, 
another has as particularly praised ; and thus, the encomiums 
being set off against the objections, he finds his work, upon the 
whole, commended far beyond its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this 
kind favor by not following the counsel that has been Kberally 



* Closing the second volume of the London edition. 



464 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



bestowed upon him ; for where abundance of valuable advice is 
given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if he should go 
astray. He only can say, in his vindication, that he faithfully 
determined, for a time, to govern himself in his second volume by 
the opinions passed upon his first ; but he was soon brought to a 
stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly ad- 
vised him to avoid the ludicrous ; another to shun the pathetic ; 
a third assured him that he was tolerable at description, but cau- 
tioned him to leave narrative alone ; while a fourth declared that 
he had a very pretty knack at turning a story, and was really 
entertaining when in a pensive mood, but was grievously mis- 
taken if he imagined himself to possess a spirit of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in 
turn closed some particular path, but left him all the world beside 
to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in 
fact, be to stand still. He remained for a time sadly embarrassed ; 
when, all at once, the thought struck him to ramble on as he had 
begun ; that his work being miscellaneous, and written for differ- 
ent humors, it could not be expected that any one would be 
pleased with the whole ; but that if it should contain something 
to suit each reader, his end would be completely answered. Few 
guests sit down to a varied table with an equal appetite for every 
dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasted pig ; another holds 
a curry or a devil in utter abomination ; a third cannot tolerate 
the ancient flavor of venison and wild-fowl ; and a fourth, of 
truly masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt on those 
knick-knacks, here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus each 
article is condemned in its turn ; and yet, amidst this variety of 
appetiteS; seldom does a dish go away from the table without 
being tasted and relished by some one or other of the guests. 



L'ENVOY. 465 



With these considerations he ventures to serve up this second 
volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first ; simply 
requesting the reader, if he should find here and there something 
to please him, to rest assured that it was written expressly for 
intelligent readers like himself; but entreating him, should he 
find any thing to dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles 
which the author has been obliged to write for readers of a less 
refined taste. 

To be serious. — The author is conscious of the numerous 
faults and imperfections of his work ; and well aware how httle 
he is discipHned and accomplished in the arts of authorship. His 
deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence arising from his 
peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a strange land, 
and appearing before a public which he has been accustomed, 
from childhood, to regard with the highest feelings of awe and 
reverence. He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, 
yet finds that very solicitude continually embarrassing his powers, 
and depriving him of that ease and confidence which are neces- 
sary to successful exertion. Stii! the kindness with which he is 
treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in time he may 
acquire a steadier footing ; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, 
half shrinking, surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering 
at his own temerity. 



THE END. 



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